Meant to Say
by Kirinin
Summary: It starts with the usual experiment-gone-wrong in Potions, and suddenly Snape, Harry, and Draco are seeing - and hearing! - the world in an entirely different way.
1. Trouble Brewing

BOOK ONE - Harry

ONE: Trouble Brewing

* * *

"Now," Professor Snape intoned, "drop the essence of _Lindera_ into the mixture. _Three _drops! No more, thank you Mr. Weasley, and no less, Mr. Longbottom. _Now_."

When the students were following his words carefully, Severus Snape reflected, he could almost forget how he loathed each and every one of them. Almost. As it was, he was edging away from his usual disdain and wavering slightly into indifference. He watched somewhat smugly as each child counted under his or her breath, partners trusting their more steady-handed counterparts to accomplish this, the most difficult phase of the brewing.

Hermione Granger, ever the teacher herself, had Neville Longbottom counting aloud with her under his breath: _one, two… three!_ They exchanged triumphant smiles as their potion bled from a vibrant green to a sludgy, unattractive blue. Veritaserum was never pretty until the very last stage of its brewing, when it began to look precisely like water.

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were actually _fighting _over the tisane, yanking it back and forth. Snape was about to step forward to halt the altercation when he heard the blond hiss something quietly that froze Potter, allowing the Slytherin to yank the bottle away. Draco added the three drops and Severus relaxed.

Potter, blinking rapidly, then growled something in return that made the Slytherin's hand spasm. At least ten new drops fell into the brew in addition to the first three.

_So much for an incident-free hour._ Snape glided up to the ill-matched pair and sneered at them, curling his lip at their botched potion. "What," he began venemously, "do we have here?" He peered into the cauldron, where the sludge was turning hard and viscous. "Another mistake, Mister Potter?" He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an exasperation that was not entirely feigned. "Some things, it would seem, are as perennial as the grass."

As for Harry, he had not even seen Draco accidentally squeeze the extra spicebush extract into their shared potion. "I don't see what's wrong with it," he muttered rebelliously.

"_That_," he hissed, "is only because you are an ignorant whelp with no sense of potions, potion-making, or, perhaps, the simple mechanics of water plus heat equaling steam, Mister Potter."

"You just hate me!" Potter shouted angrily.

"Yes," Snape drawled patiently, as though waiting for the rest of Harry's statement.

"…so you're yelling at me about our potion when it's perfectly fine!" he finished.

"Yes." Professor Snape's tone of voice had gone from affable to ice-cold in a matter of moments. "That's right, Mister Potter. The whole _world_ revolves around you. Any time I berate you, it is solely because your whine is insufferable and because your stupid heroics yank on my nerves like an extended session of Cruciatus. It could never be because you have _quite obviously done something wrong._" He pointed out the cauldron, which was smoking and had begun to shake.

"That's right!" Harry continued to shout, ignoring Snape's sarcasm. "I can't have done something wrong – I never do! It's always you – you and your vendetta against my father –"

"Mister Potter," Snape cut in, voice low and infinitely more dangerous. "I highly suggest you cease your ranting this instant, if you value your Saturday nights."

"As if you'd have any issue with spending your Saturdays in detention!" Harry shouted. "But if you're that desperate for company, I guess I'll have to join you."

Even Draco Malfoy was aghast. Most of the rest of the Potions class was, come to that, staring with the sort of horrified attention one gives to the scene of a grisly accident.

Snape finally and predictably lost his temper. If anything, there was a consensus of genuine surprise that he had not done so earlier. "You addlepated _fool_," Snape spat angrily. "Some day _very soon_ your antics will bring forth your sorry and ignoble death. I am not quite certain what it is about you that makes you feel so very _invincible_, but I assure you that you are quite human and far smaller than you seem to believe. You had best learn how to keep your mouth shut and your head down!" The Professor's face was white, with hectic spots of colour on each cheek, and his breathing was labored when he finished.

As though he had not dug himself a fine grave already, Harry went on. "At least my mouth," he said coldly, deliberately, "is not so big as your –"

The cauldron exploded.

At least, that was the way it seemed to the students in Potions; perhaps, however, 'erupted' would be a better description, as the contents of the cauldron climbed eagerly to the ceiling as though from the mouth of a geyser before crashing down all over Harry, Draco, and Professor Snape.

Draco coughed the potion out of what had been his gaping jaw and gawked, looking horror-struck; he had obviously swallowed some.

Harry gulped. He knew that this was his fault, although he did not want to say so. Draco of all people looking so terrified at what had happened did not sit well in his gut.

Snape, still dripping, growled at Harry, fury no longer quite encompassing his stance. "You listen to me, you ungrateful little wretch!" he shouted. "You have absolutely no _idea_ how lucky you were to have anyone in your entire existence care for you so much as your mother did! Can't you understand that by mucking about in this _highly dangerous _class and sneaking out after curfew and mouthing off to the wrong people that you are essentially thankless for the priceless gift that she handed you without so much as a second thought? _Your parents died for you, _and unless you shape up, _they will not be the last._"

The righteous anger drained from Harry like a lanced wound throughout Snape's speech, until he had never felt so low in his life. "I'm sorry," Harry said, looking at his professor with anguish in his eyes. "You have to believe I never thought of it like that…"

Professor Snape looked only slightly mollified beneath the layers of grey-blue sludge. "All right then," he continued, his voice more weary now than angry. "Let's get to the Hospital Wing so that we can be fretted over. Class dismissed."

The entire class cleared out of the room in record time, save Hermione and Neville, who gave more care to placing their near-complete Potion in stasis before beating a hasty retreat.

Draco growled at Harry out of the corner of his mouth as they trailed behind Snape's dripping form. "This is horrible," Draco spat angrily.

"Yeah," Harry said, shaking potion out of his right sleeve. "Sorry."

Draco stared at him. "What?"

Harry blinked. "Said I'm sorry. You've never heard me say that before?"

Draco gaped. "_What_?" He frowned. "There's something wrong with my hearing."

Harry shook his head angrily. "I _said_ that I was sorry, all right? Look, this isn't my bloody fault completely. Something went wrong with that potion, and I'm pretty sure I got most of it right, okay?"

Malfoy's grey eyes were wide and haunted. "Okkaaaay, crazy person," he muttered.

"What the hell?" Harry muttered in return.

"Exactly."

"What?"

Luckily for both boys, they had finally reached the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey looked up and smiled cheerfully at their entrance.

"Why, hello!" she exclaimed. "If it isn't the three people most likely to be injured in all of Hogwarts! Why, Harry; it's been nearly a day since I've seen you. Have you fallen off of your broom?" She paused. "Wait, perhaps I ought to hazard a guess: you were playing Quidditch when you and Mister Malfoy collided in mid-air. Severus felt he ought to punish you severely, and also wanted to see the both of you in pain. How close am I?"

The trio gaped at her.

"Madam Pomfrey, that's not fair!" Harry began.

"Madam, I hardly think –" Snape began.

"It was a Potions accident!" Draco yelled.

They all quieted.

"I never asked for a shouting match," the mediwitch muttered irritably.

Harry wondered if she'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. "Madam Pomfrey, we made a little bit of a mistake in Potions today, my fault, mostly, and we were wondering if you could have a look at us." Harry attempted to keep his tone as even as possible.

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. "Smooth, Potter."

"If you want help, you need to learn how to be _polite_," Snape said, which was rich coming from him.

"I was polite!" Harry exclaimed. "All I said was that we had a mistake in Potions and we wanted her help!"

Draco eyed him curiously. "Is that what they term polite in the Muggle world?"

Madam Pomfrey then broke in, looking slightly confused. "Why don't the three of you go into the emergency showers and rinse that gunk off of you. You should keep your clothes on; I'll have some Hospital gowns ready when you come out. Though, I don't know why I bother; you'll only all be in another scrape tomorrow."

"Thank you," Harry said with straining patience.

Draco elbowed him. "Merlin, Potter! Do you want to be seen by Madam Pomfrey or not?"

Harry was beginning to feel more than a bit angry. "Damn it, Malfoy!" he exclaimed as they jostled on their way to the emergency shower. "What's your problem?" The both of them could fit, but Snape had to resign himself to waiting.

"Likewise," Draco spat.

"What?"

The two boys crowded into the shower and Harry yanked the cord that would wash the potion away. When Snape went over his safety guidelines in class, Harry had been surprised that the greatest solvent was the same in the Muggle and Wizarding worlds. Being soaked to the skin to get rid of the potion seemed very – unWizardly and inelegant; he felt he must look like a drowned rat. As the water ran over them, Draco sputtered.

"What in regards to what? You're so bloody confusing."

"I don't understand you." Harry was nearly shouting by now. "All I said was that… you know what? Never bloody mind!" He stepped out of the way to allow Snape room to enter.

Draco followed him, and together they stood dripping on the flagstones of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey handed them warm-looking robes rather than the usual tie-in-the-back gowns, and Harry was beyond grateful. "Thank you so much."

"There, that's better Potter," Snape said from behind him. "That didn't hurt now, did it? You stupid brat."

Harry gaped, but Madam Pomfrey didn't seem to have heard the insult, or at least she was studiously ignoring it. He slipped behind one of the screens, shrugging out of his robes, which were now heavy and quite cold, and managed to wrap the warm robe around his thin frame. Tying it tightly at the waist, he emerged to find Malfoy and Professor Snape in similar attire in more Slytherin green for Snape and silver for Draco, which Harry found very thoughtful.

"I like this robe," he said, almost to himself, but Draco heard him.

"I like the fact that it reflects our Houses, too," he said, the sneer pasted across his features making it appear as though he were making fun of Harry; but that was an awfully strange thing to tease someone about.

"Are you feeling all right?" Harry wanted to know.

"Are _you_?"

"I'm confused," Harry said slowly.

"Me too," Draco agreed. "But this is as much my fault as it is yours."

Harry turned to stare.

"What?" Draco demanded, not looking as though he felt he had admitted anything untoward. "I put in over four times the _Lindera_ I was supposed to, because you startled me."

Harry pondered over this for a minute. "I'm scared of you right now," he said.

"As scared as I am of you? Impossible."

Madam Pomfrey managed to get the three of them situated into different beds without speaking, for which Harry was suddenly grateful. Harry was not an avid Potions student, but he was no fool. He could tell that something had gone horribly wrong with the way that he, Draco and Snape communicated, and he would rather the mediwitch didn't open her mouth.

Finally, after she had tucked them all in and advised them to try to nap – 'not as though you'll listen' – she moved to her small office and left them alone.

Harry turned to face Draco, who was lying on his back and glaring at the ceiling. "What do you think has happened?" he wanted to know.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Potter," Draco replied. However, he turned to face Harry, curling in on his side. "I can only hope it's fixed up by the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match on Thursday."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what?" Draco inquired, frowning. "What are you agreeing to? This is horrible."

"You said something about Quidditch," Harry explained.

Draco sat up, fear twisting his features. "No – no I didn't –"

"Will the two of you be bloody well _quiet_?" Snape demanded. "I'm running on nearly three whole hours of sleep right now, and if you don't shut your ridiculous and hormonal gobs, I'll do what the Headmaster has only threatened to: lock you together in a room until you've either had sex or committed murder." Glaring at their shocked expressions, he muttered, "personally I'll be hoping for mutually assured destruction."

Harry shut his eyes tightly. "He didn't _really_ say that, he didn't _really_ say that –"

Malfoy shook him on the shoulder. "I know it's absolutely appalling," he said slowly, "but if it was about sex and the Headmaster – oh, Merlin! Those two words should never, ever be in the same sentence ever again – then I heard it, too."

"I'll swallow the key," Snape continued idly. "Your father will only find you years later, when you and Potter have had lots of little messy-haired, grey-eyed children."

Draco buried his head into the pillow behind him and let out a terrified scream at the very thought. He seemed to be chanting to the pillow: _don't! don't! don't!_

"But if he isn't really saying that," Harry said, swallowing thickly, "what do you suppose he _is_ saying?"

They turned unwillingly and simultaneously to Snape's prone form; the older man had his eyes closed. "And stop staring at me, or I'll feed you to Fluffy," he added.

"Okay," Harry said slowly, "he's not really saying that. So we're not hearing what he's actually saying. Are we hearing what he's thinking?"

Draco considered this. "No. His lips are moving, Potter, use that messy head of yours for something! He's saying _something_, we're just not hearing it properly."

"Instead we're hearing something else? That doesn't make any sense!"

"I'm frightened, too, Potter, but we have to think this through, because it's productive, and therefore calming."

"I didn't say anything about being scared," Harry said huffily, "I said that this is confusing and it doesn't make any sense!"

"I heard you the bloody _first_ time. And didn't you hear me say that I need to keep thinking this through? It's the only reason I'm not hexing you within an inch of your life or casting _Obliviate_ on myself so that I can pretend I didn't hear that comment of Snape's!"

"All right, all right," Harry said, realizing that communication breakdown had somehow occurred again; and they'd been doing so well, too. "We'll keep talking if it keeps you calm."

"What? I never said…" Draco rubbed a hand tiredly across his features.

Harry shook his head. "Could it be that he thinks he's saying something else, but he's really saying what we hear?"

Madam Pomfrey returned from her office. "Gentlemen?" she inquired. Once she had gained everyone's attention, she smiled and held up a placard. It read _can you read this? If you can, hold up one finger. If you cannot, hold up two._

Harry's eyebrows raised in tandem with both of the others; Madam Pomfrey was cleverer than he'd thought and, he realized, somewhat funny. He lifted his pointer finger.

Draco lifted a different finger entirely; obviously, Madam Pomfrey's quip hadn't amused him.

Madam Pomfrey presented another placard. _That's quite enough from you, Mister Malfoy_, it said. _Now, what exactly happened?_

"But we told you!" Harry exclaimed. "The potion…"

"I warned you once about being rude," Snape snapped. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for this whole fiasco, Potter."

Madam Pomfrey moved the new placard to the back. _Did any of you ingest the potion?_

Draco raised his hand tentatively in the air. "By accident," he said ruefully.

_Are you feeling sick to your stomach? Dizzy? Angry? Unfocussed? Sleepy?_

Draco shook his head for all of these symptoms.

_Do you have __any__ symptoms?_

Draco looked at his professor and shrugged. "Other than terror?" he said.

_Is the confusion accompanied by any dizziness?_

The Slytherin frowned at his professor and shook his head.

"That's not what you said," Harry pointed out. "You didn't say confusion –"

"I did so!"

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat and pointed to a new placard. _Harry just said, "That's not what you said",_ it read. _Mister Malfoy denied the claim_.

"Our hearing is perfectly sound," Professor Snape bit off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, the Headmaster will likely fire me if I don't arrive to teach his little urchins –" Professor Snape paused when he caught sight of Harry and Draco's slightly puzzled glances. Such a comment was rather – uncharacteristic of the irascible Potions Master.

Once Madam Pomfrey had regained their attention, new words formed on the placard. _Draco, would you please come up here and write the name of the symptom you just told me?_

Draco nodded cautiously, walking over to the placard. When he moved away to his cot, Harry saw the word _confusion_ written in large, spidery handwriting.

_Harry,_ Madam Pomfrey's words continued just below Draco's. _Would you please come up to the front and write what you heard Mister Malfoy's symptom to be?_

Harry did. Just below Madam Pomfrey's writing, he wrote TERROR in block letters.

Draco gaped. "I didn't say that!"

_Professor Snape, did you also hear the word 'terror'_? the nurse inquired.

Snape nodded slowly. Harry noted he looked very pale.

_Harry, would you mind stating what I said to you when you first arrived?_

Harry nodded. "You said that Draco and I probably were fighting on our brooms and that Snape actually enjoyed seeing us in pain and that was why he walked us here."

Draco walked over and handed Harry a piece of paper. It said, _You were horrible, the meanest I've ever seen you be. The last thing I need right now is to be shouted at, I'm bewildered enough as it is. I'm almost as angry about what you said about Snape. _

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "That isn't what you heard –"

Malfoy, pale, nodded. Then he passed the sheet to Madam Pomfrey, much to Harry's embarrassment.

She skimmed the letter and blinked in confusion. _Could it be that the potion is translating what you're thinking?_

Snape shook his head, along with Harry and Draco.

"Well, if you're so clever –" Madam Pomfrey began, then paused. _I apologize. Why don't you think so?_

Snape pursed his lips in thought. "I believe we are hearing something more specific – the truth in the statement is emphasized, while any untruths are downplayed or perhaps even eliminated completely. I think – I think that Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy and myself can no longer hear any lies."

The words translated on Madam Pomfrey's board just as Harry had heard them, which he thought was somewhat impressive. He supposed that Snape was very clever, and was therefore arranging to speak the most absolute truth he could manage, just so that Draco and Harry would understand him.

"We might," Draco said slowly – much more slowly than Snape had, Harry noted. "We might be hearing what the other person means instead of what they say."

When the words translated faithfully on the board, Harry was somewhat heartened. "This might not be so bad," he managed cheerfully.

Draco stared at him. "It can't be _that_ horrible," he managed, and Harry slowly realized that Draco and Snape had heard the fear behind his statement. This was incredibly confusing. When Draco's gaze found the board, his grey eyes lit with realization and he shrugged at Harry.

"This will be – difficult," Snape said. "In other words, this is possibly the most challenging and demeaning potion I've ever seen. Veritaserum is tricky and it's entirely likely that there is no cure for the condition in which we have found ourselves. It's a shame I decided to pair Draco and Harry today of all days," he went on to Madam Pomfrey. "Their relationship and Potions ought not to mix."

Harry didn't need to look at the board to see that Snape had said nothing of the kind. "What should we do?" he wanted to know.

Madam Pomfrey opened her mouth to answer before rolling her eyes in exasperation at herself and turning once again to the written word. _You three ought to stay here until we can figure out a way to at least filter actual speech through to you._

"You heard Professor Snape," Draco countered. "There isn't a cure for this, and we may well be stuck with it for good."

_Professor Snape said no such thing!_ Madam Pomfrey's tablet exclaimed.

"But he _meant_ it," Harry agreed. "We can't stay here indefinitely; and besides, I feel fine."

"Sometimes, in unpredictable moments," Professor Snape said slowly, "I fear for your life. This is one of those times."

Harry frowned, wondering how to respond to this. He tried to figure out what the professor must have actually said to him. "I… promise I'll be very careful?" he tried. He tried again, making sure the intent matched his words. "I promise I'll be _very careful._"

Draco snorted. "If you only heard how both of those emerged, Potter, you'd laugh yourself sick."

"Somehow I doubt it," Harry muttered, pinking. He suspected he'd rather made a fool of himself just now, although he couldn't be certain. Suddenly he really didn't want to be around Professor Snape or Draco Malfoy anymore; he didn't like anybody hearing what he actually meant rather than what he said.

He wondered what this said about him as a person. "I'm going to see Ron and Hermione," he said, attempting simplicity.

"Me, too," Draco said, rising and heading for the door.

_Okay, generally I've got it,_ Harry thought, strongly doubting that Draco really meant to go have a chat with Harry's two best friends. Likely, Harry had meant that he wanted to get out of the Hospital Wing as quickly as possible, and Draco was more than willing to follow suit – or perhaps he'd actually said that he was headed off to Charms, where Ron and Hermione happened to be.

"I'm really sorry, Professor Snape," Harry said earnestly at the door, focussing on the shame he'd felt at his professor's last telling-off. Flushing, he slowly wondered what Snape had really been saying at the time. The colour drained from his cheeks as a new thought occurred to him. When Snape yelled at Harry for doing something dangerous, was he _always_ thinking of Lily Potter and her sacrifice? Was _that_ why Snape kept calling him spoiled and lazy and stupid? He could certainly see how Snape could think so with such a foundation to build from.

"So you say," the older man replied. "But give you five minutes and you'll fall into the sharpest object in the room. On a street full of ordinary wizards, you'd find the one Death Eater to ask for directions."

Harry shook his head, not knowing how to respond to this – mostly because he could not imagine this speech's original incarnation, but partly because he was startled that Snape's meaning was so far almost always separate from his actual words. Professor Snape, Harry now realized, literally never said exactly what he meant, while Harry and Draco sometimes did and sometimes did not. "I'll be very careful," he repeated slowly, hoping that got through. Then, he headed off to Charms, which was already underway.

* * *

Author's Notes: So... this has been sitting on the hard drive for forever and ever, but this will force me to finish it! It's really almost done anyway, but I've been agonizing over the end for ages. Hope you enjoy it, while recognizing that this is a wee romp rather than a juggernaut like SoS. Other fic to come. :)

Happy Holidays, all!

-K


	2. the Chapter About Sex

TWO: the Chapter About Sex

* * *

Harry was very cautious going through the halls. He wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had happened to he and Malfoy, but he did not want to risk encountering anyone else who might inadvertently stumble on him and piece things together.

The risk of utter humiliation helped keep him humble and quiet until he reached the Charms classroom, slipping in next to Hermione.

"Where were you, Harry? I was so worried!" she exclaimed.

Harry watched her lips carefully, noting that these were indeed the exact words that she formed. "I'll tell you later," he replied quietly. "This is pretty big."

"Will you come close to dying again?" Hermione casually wondered.

Harry whipped around to face her, but knew she genuinely could _not_ have said that. Black humour certainly wasn't Hermione's bag, and besides, he doubted she'd be able to manage such a question in a casual tone of voice. "Erm…" _An expression of concern – she's only concerned. Say what you'd say if she fussed._ "Don't… don't worry, Hermione… it'll be fine." It was harder to put her off, though, now that he had heard her fears laid so bare.

"Well," Hermione said snidely, "when you say it like _that_, with such confidence – "

"Really," he reassured her, very happy that Hermione did not have the ability to hear the truth behind his words, as Snape or Draco now did. "It'll be fine."

Mollified, she turned back to her notes. "You've missed loads, you know."

"Will you lend me the notes?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied, "although picking up the slack for you and Ronald makes me so furious I could scream."

Harry glanced at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She certainly didn't _look_ furious; she appeared to be completely engaged in the lesson.

"If you don't like taking our notes or helping us study," he countered, "why do you keep doing it?"

She eyed him oddly. "I don't mind helping you study," she said, and it must have been the truth. "I even enjoy it sometimes. As for your notes and your homework, that'swhy the pair of you keep me around. I memorize textbooks, but you think I've forgotten first-year? People don't really change, you know." She turned her attention quietly back to her work.

Harry felt remarkably like he'd been punched in the solar plexus. "Hermione…"

She looked up from her notes, unconcerned. "Harry, I'm trying to write."

He copied her notes as she took them so he wouldn't have to borrow them, later.

After Charms, Ron made his way over to their table with a large grin. "Hey, Harry!" he greeted. "Get all of that potion out?"

"Not exactly," Harry hedged, still feeling unaccountably guilty over Hermione. It wasn't his fault what she thought, or at least, he didn't _think_ that it was; but he couldn't seem to help it. "There's a sort of – side effect." And he told them.

Ron and Hermione eyed each other silently for a moment, as though exchanging some sort of communication that didn't require words at all. Then, Ron opened his mouth.

"That's wicked," he opined.

When Hermione swatted him, Harry knew that was what he'd really said.

"No, really!" Ron exclaimed. "You could spy on all the Slytherins and learn their Quidditch moves…"

"It isn't reading minds," Harry said. "You can only pick up on what people really mean when they say things, which is kind of like what they're thinking about and kind of not."

"So you're not hearing what I'm saying to you right now?" Ron wondered. "Crikey."

Harry blinked at him. "No – erm – Ron, I'm hearing you perfectly loud and clear."

"Well, I reckon I'm thinking about what I'm saying," Ron said with a shrug. "It's just that weird – you can't really _not_."

"You're irritating," Hermione said plainly, glaring at Ron.

Harry rolled his eyes, but Hermione said it in a way that was somewhat fond, so he supposed he'd let it slide instead of telling her to be more – wait. Hermione would never tell someone that they were irritating, at least not flat out.

Ron sighed deeply, put-upon. "No," he countered firmly. "You are far more irritating."

"You irritate me because I find you attractive," Hermione replied.

Harry gaped, then stifled laughter.

Ron's shoulders hunched inward as he continued the 'conversation' with Hermione. "I find you attractive," he said, "but I am mortally terrified that you do not find me attractive in return."

"I," Hermione said with a puzzled frown, "am also terrified that you do not like me – though I worry less about my physical attractiveness and more about the fact that we will run out of things to talk about after the first five minutes of our non-relationship."

"We've been friends for over five years," Ron pointed out, "and we still talk every day."

"Yes," Hermione said slowly. "Friends."

"Friends," Ron echoed, as they seemed to come to a decision. "Harry?"

"Harry," Hermione tacked on urgently, "don't you agree?"

"What?" Harry blurted. "Wait – what were we talking about?"

Hermione tsked. "I don't blame you for fazing out," she said. "Sometimes I wish _I _could. Ron and I were arguing again."

"Oh," Harry said. "Oh!" He stared suspiciously at the pair. "About what?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly!"

"Harry, mate, weren't you listening?" Ron demanded.

"Yeah," Harry said slowly. _Much to my utter horror._ "Uhm. So, how 'bout those Canons?"

Ron punched him companionably on the shoulder and Hermione rolled her eyes as they headed off for Care of Magical Creatures. Harry felt lucky he had friends who had learned when and when not to press him.

Somewhat unfortunately, Malfoy was already there. He smirked at Harry when the trio arrived. "So, Potter," he said, looking as though he had already regained his mental equilibrium, "were you planning on paying any attention to me?"

"Shove it, Malfoy," Ron spat.

"I _said_," Malfoy repeated slowly, "pay attention to me!"

Harry glared at him. "I'm bloody well looking at you and I'm listening to you screech! I'm _already_ paying attention to you!"

"_Pay attention to me!_" Malfoy shouted, now at the top of his lungs.

Harry blinked before turning to Ron and Hermione. "Look, I guess I'd better go and see what he wants." He waved at the pair, not noting that both were staring at him as though he'd lost whatever mind he'd had. He gripped Malfoy's upper arm, hard, and began striding away from the gathering class, as though Draco were an unruly child.

"Ow! Hey!" Draco exclaimed. "Cut it out, that hurts!"

Harry released the other boy a hundred yards behind Hagrid's hut, towards the Forbidden Forest. "Well?"

"Well what?" Draco hissed, massaging life back into his bruised limb. He appeared to be pouting.

"Well, you _have_ my attention. Undivided, actually."

Draco blinked at him. "Eh?"

"You were just saying –" Harry began, exasperated. His brow furrowed. "Wait. You _weren't_ saying that, were you?" He stared at Draco. "Is _that_ what you mean when you bother me and Ron and Hermione?" he demanded, aghast. "Omigod, of _course_ it is. You're a spoiled brat."

"I know you're not saying what I think you are," Draco slowly replied. "What did you hear me say?"

Harry opened his mouth before shaking his head in resignation. He cast about before finding a stick. He scratched Draco's words into the hard earth of the grounds near the Forbidden Forest.

Draco rotated a bit and peered over Harry's shoulder. "What? No! Now you're just lying to get attention."

"I think _you_ want attention," Harry corrected. _From me._ He didn't say those last few words aloud, but from the horrified expression on Draco's pale features, he could guess that Draco had heard them.

"You should have been friends with me instead of that stupid Weasel," Draco huffed. Then, he paused. "This is ridiculous. We shouldn't even be _talking_ to one another. It's like we're constantly drunk! I have no desire to be drunk in front of you. _No desire whatsoever._ We need to go back to class before we begin to talk about our favorite deceased pets and our secret crushes."

Nodding fervently, Harry followed Draco back to the milling group of students and stood next to Hermione and Ron.

"I am physically attracted to you –" Hermione began.

"I don't think you want to have that conversation right now, Hermione," Harry cautioned the bushy-haired girl.

"What?" Hermione wanted to know. "All I said was that I was physically attracted to Ron. Nothing wrong with that."

Harry could pretty well picture that the first and last parts of her statement were the only parts that cooincided with reality. He turned his attention to Malfoy, standing close by. _Oh, well. He's heard her already; and it is bound to annoy him. _"Never mind, Hermione," he said, affably. "Go on ahead."

"Thank you, I will," she replied frostily. "What do you think of that, Ron?"

"I think if I didn't feel so insecure, I'd kiss you right now," Ron replied. "Your cheeks are all pink from the wind and you look delicious."

Harry choked, but Hermione was already responding.

"It's too bad, then, that you wouldn't make a move if your life depended on it," she said with a small smile. "Because I'd enjoy being kissed by you. I've wanted to be snogged by you for ages."

In front of her, Malfoy had gone slightly green.

"I'd do more than snog if it weren't for all these people," Ron offered.

"What _would_ you do?"

"I would throw you over my shoulder and ravish you until all the books you'd ever read fell completely out of that brain of yours."

Hermione did not look startled by this image; in fact, she appeared perfectly composed when she replied, "could you _manage_ that?"

"I think so," Ron said, "in an alternate universe. Right now being close enough to smell you is driving all thought from my own head. I doubt I could complete a sentence right now, much less a conquest."

"That's a shame," Hermione went on thoughtfully. "Although I could see you in that sort of role. Maybe one of these days I'll tie you up and take you to the Head Girl's room and –"

"Merlin, girl, shut up and have at it!" Draco exclaimed angrily, turning on Hermione. "Go ahead and do whatever it is virgin Gryffindor prudes do in the night!"

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Hermione wondered. "Wow, I keep forgetting entirely how rude you are. I can't explain it – your obnoxious nature just startles me every single time."

"What? Did. You say. To. Hermione?" Ron growled.

Harry felt slightly guilty for forcing Malfoy to listen to Ron and Hermione's lack of sex, as it had obviously unhinged him. He apologized by helping Hermione hold back the lunging Ron.

"I thank you very much for defending my honor," it seemed like Hermione was saying, "because it's very sweet and honestly it gratifies me. But I'd like you to stay right here, thanks, so don't get yourself expelled."

Harry, wrestling with the still-bristling Ron, wished Hermione really _would_ say that aloud. It would certainly have more effect than, _no, Ron! he's not worth it!_ – which, judging from previous experience, was what she had in fact said.

"Weasley," Draco continued with a sneer (while Harry, through the mysterious forces of telepathy, was attempting to tell him to shut up), "you might be able to knock me out, but it won't change the fact that I'll always be better than you." He paused. "Except in family, friends, and strength of will, but that's neither here nor there."

Harry blinked and nearly flinched in his surprise. Draco sincerely believed that the Weasleys were better than his own family – and that Harry and Hermione were better than his own friends – and that Ron was stronger than Draco himself was – and –

- and also that he, Draco, was the better person despite all of that?

His brain hiccoughed at the paradox and he accidentally let up on his chokehold on Ron.

Ron, startled and joyous at being held so loosely, swung wildly for Draco and his fist connected to Draco's cheek with a cracking sound.

"Ron, no!" Hermione exclaimed, dropping to examine the fallen boy, obviously forgetting entirely who he was. She took Malfoy's face in her hands and dragged up his eyelids. "Passed out cold," she commented, with a glare up at the redhead.

Ron examined his own fist. "Wicked," he exclaimed, then looked at the boy he'd dropped. "Whoops."

Harry rolled his eyes. "What, you thought you'd hit him and nothing'd happen?" he demanded irritably.

Hermione was slapping Draco's cheeks to revive him, and if she was slightly more violent about it than absolutely necessary, Harry wasn't about to mention it and incur her wrath himself. He noted that several of the other students had heard the altercation and were running off, likely to summon an authority figure.

"Off," Draco was saying suddenly, pushing Hermione away. "Bloody well _off_, can't you understand English?" He lumbered to his feet before stumbling; Hermione caught him by the upper arm before he again shook her off. "Sweet Merlin, girl, I'm sorry for impinging on your _honor_, tell your redheaded brute to back off. Forget I ever said you ought to sleep with him, I don't _want_ the wizarding world to be plagued with superstrong, redheaded little geniuses, all right? Ow." He tentatively touched his cheek.

At that moment, Hagrid came bustling up, looking out-of-sorts. "Sorry I'm late," he exclaimed, then frowned at Draco. "Sweet Merlin, Mister Malfoy! Who's hit you?"

Ron was grinning like a fool. "It was me, Hagrid."

Hagrid was obviously trying very hard not to congratulate the Weasley boy, his lips twitching before he grimaced. "That's – that's very _wrong_ of yeh, Mister Weasley, to do that where I could'na see it. A week's worth a' detention might make yeh think twice next time, eh?"

Ron nodded ruefully.

"Do yeh need the Hospital Wing, Mister Malfoy?" Hagrid inquired.

Draco pressed his hand to his cheek and nodded, glaring up at the half-giant; it took Harry a moment to realize that Draco had caught Hagrid's meaning every bit as clearly as he had.

"I suppose so. It hurts like hell. Weasley carries rocks in his knuckles, it must be the troll ancestry carrying through."

"Off with yeh, then," Hagrid dismissed him. "Now, today, we're going to talk a bit more about Blast-Ended Skrewts," Hagrid went on.

The class groaned as one.

"Don't you think it's odd," Hermione whispered to Harry under the cover of Hagrid's opening explanations, "that he sort of complimented me and Ron?"

Harry frowned at her. "How so?"

"Maybe he meant something different so that's why you didn't hear it," Hermione mused, "but he implied that if Ronald and I were ever to –" She broke off, flushing. "Well, that we'd have little genius children. That was a reference to me, I – I think."

An uncomfortable tingle shot through Harry's stomach. "_You_ heard him say that?"

"Well of course I did," Hermione scoffed. "He certainly apologizes quickly enough when hit."

"Yeah, we should keep that in mind," Ron tacked on.

Hermione glared.

Harry dismissed the strange, foreboding feeling that had briefly gripped him. If Draco Malfoy _had_ complimented Hermione, it was in a _really_ roundabout way.

Oh, who was he kidding? It was a world gone mad.

* * *

Draco found his way to the Hospital Wing unhappily. He would admit, at least to himself, that the thrashings he'd taken from the monstrous beasts Hagrid owned were usually minor bumps, bruises and cuts.

This was nothing compared to the pain this Weasley-monster could inflict. He had heard a sickening sound right before he passed out, followed by a horribly wrong sort of vibration had seemed to pass through his entire skeletal system. He'd never felt anything quite like it before. All opportunity to ham things up and get Weasley expelled aside, he was pretty sure his jaw was broken.

Madam Pomfrey looked up at him and frowned. "Good gracious, Mister Malfoy. I hope what I said this morning wasn't a self-fulfilling prophesy; because lo and behold, here you are… _again_. Might I be so bold as to inquire who's broken your jaw?"

So it _was_ broken. Draco grimaced, then winced when even _that_ hurt. "Weasley," he said slowly and through nearly unmoving lips. "Ronald Weasley."

Madam Pomfrey frowned. "Let me give you some advice, young man. The Weasleys are a hot-tempered bunch – mean as the weasels they're named for one moment, then sweet-tempered as puppies the next. He's probably already sorry he's hit you so hard, if not actually sorry he's hit you. That, however, doesn't fix the damage he's done."

"So?"

"So now's as good a time as any to learn how to deal with that sort. You'll encounter Ronald Weasleys all your life," Madam Pomfrey continued as she opened a jar of salve. "The trick with them is, if you find them growing angry, apologize immediately; or do something kind, and quick. Good people know enough not to trust their tempers to make their decisions for them." She winked. "Trust me, Mister Malfoy, the sting to your pride won't hurt half so much as this will." She carefully began dabbing the salve across his jawline.

"Ow, oh _Merlin_ ouch," he muttered.

"I've got to get this numbing potion on before I can re-set the jaw," she explained.

"Eh?" It was all Draco could manage while not wanting to move his jaw and trying to stay still for the mediwitch.

"The jaw isn't broken after all, just dislocated. We're going to have to pop it back in."

"Eh?!"

"Shh, Mister Malfoy." She smiled reassuringly. "I promise this will hurt like hell."

Needless to say, Draco was not happy about his eventful day. He had missed two of his classes already, one of them his favorite class, and he'd been hit by the evilness that was Ron Weasley. Next to that, Hermione's little punch in third-year was a love tap.

Love tap. Well, he admitted to himself, it hadn't been the most Slytherin of plans to make fun of Weasley's and Granger's budding-then-dying-a-horrible-death, off-again, on-again romance. It was obviously a touchy subject for both of the already notoriously-touchy Gryffindors, and he couldn't count on the Golden Trio to hold back their third, most volatile component every time. Still, he recognized that he had been set up – that Potter _could_ have stopped his friends, and hadn't – and he longed for reprisal.

Perhaps this was not the wisest of ideas, given Malfoy's swollen cheek; but wisdom and Malfoy seldom went hand in hand. He was a wizard of passions, and there were some things that he simply could not resist. Taunting Weasleys was one of them; it was right up there with irritating his mother's guests and kicking House Elves. He was only human. So even though his cheek still ached, and his muscles were clenching and unclenching from the exertion of re-binding one of his frayed tendons, he sneered, or tried, as sweet thoughts of revenge danced in his head.

So, smiling a very evil smile (so much as he was capable of, anyway – he strongly suspected it was still slightly lopsided and his newly-healed muscles shook from the effort) Draco Malfoy loped dangerously off to the Great Hall.

* * *

Harry, for his part, was attempting to ignore everyone around him. Gryffindor had always been an extremely tight-knit family, something he had constantly had reason to appreciate – but now, he could do with a little bit less closeness and 'sharing'.

"I want to have sex!" Lavender piped up to Parvati.

"Me, too!" Parvati answered enthusiastically.

They giggled simultanously.

"The boy should be strong and handsome!" Parvati piped.

"Famous would be good," Lavender agreed.

"He should be cute."

"Yes, cute."

"And chivalrous."

"And _insatiable_."

"With the sex."

They sighed and giggled again.

Harry was on the verge of scooping his own heart out with his soup spoon; mostly because, as annoying as this conversation was the first time around, it had repeated with little variation over the past twenty minutes – over and over and over again. Harry wished, more fervently than he'd ever wished anything before, that teenagers were not so sexually-fixated. Fairly half of the 'conversations' he could currently hear were based around it, sprinkled liberally with fears about parents, grades, and social standing. For instance, the discussion between Parvati and Lavendar had finally shifted away from that initial, universal topic:

"I have obtained an item," Parvati said, "that is a mark of my high social status. Admire it."

Lavendar obligingly cooed over a new shiny bracelet on Parvati's dark arm.

"Potter."

Harry looked up, startled, and said the first thing that came to mind: "Malfoy, thank God."

Draco appeared to be more than slightly startled by Harry's relieved greeting. "Eh?"

Harry flushed. "At least you'll mean more interesting things than the bimbo twins," he commented lowly.

Draco tuned in to Parvati and Lavendar's conversation and winced. "Where are Weasley and Granger?"

"They said they had something to do in the library," Harry offered, "and that they'd be here soon."

"Damn. I wanted to ridicule them."

"I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait," Harry said, amused.

Draco tilted his head to one side in enquiry. "You do realize they're likely off snogging in some secret corner of the library. Surrounded by all those sexy books."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Why, jealous?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Terribly. Now go away."

"Poor wee Potter," Malfoy said sadly. "No one to talk the sexy subliminal with."

"I _said_ to go away."

Draco frowned. "Here comes the dynamic duo now."

Ron and Hermione entered the Great Hall, clasping hands and blushing bright pink. Harry groaned and lowered his head to the table. "Noooo," he moaned. "No, why now of all times? Couldn't they have bickered awhile longer? Now I'll hear everything. _Everything!_"

Ron and Hermione slid in on either side of Harry, Hermione glaring at Malfoy.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he said. "Just wondering what it's like to really kiss somebody."

Harry coughed out his mouthful of mashed potato.

"Well, Malfoy," Ron said, looking startled, "don't expect me to give you a demonstration."

"You haven't kissed before, Malfoy?" Hermione inquired.

"Well," he said slowly, "not really. Pansy tries so hard, but I think that's part of the trouble." He clapped his hands over his mouth, looking horrifed. "Potter!"

Harry rose immediately, pissed off at that inborn saviour-complex that made him instantly leap to anyone's aid, including pointy-nosed gits who'd been rude to his friends. "Relax, Malfoy," he said, unconsciously reaching out a hand to steady the other boy.

Draco slid away. "Relax? You idiot, _relax_?"

Harry turned to his friends; Ron was already halfway out of his seat, a puzzled frown on his face. "No, no, sit down!" he exclaimed. "Don't make a fuss, I'll take him to Madam Pomfrey." His eyes scanned the Gryffindor table; enough people were paying attention to he and Malfoy already.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked. Her eyes narrowed. "What if it's a ploy to get you alone and knock the stuffing out of you?"

"This is no ploy, Granger," Draco assured her. "I'm bloody terrified. Oh, don't you see? I _swallowed_ some of the potion!"

Ron and Hermione glanced at one another, suspicion writ clear as day on their features. Ron's dark blue eyes were like thunderclouds.

"All right," Ron said slowly. "I'd like to eat, so Harry should be able to take you alone."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed.

"But," he added, "since I don't trust you any farther than I can punch you, you'll have to answer a question, first."

"Bloody hell, Weasley, what?"

Ron darted a glance towards Hermione and stood, moving to Malfoy. He asked something in a low voice that Harry couldn't hear.

Draco turned a very odd shade of purple before hissing, "once a day. Sometimes twice. I'll get you for this, Weasley."

Ron, looking pleased with himself, sat.

"By the way, you broke my jaw," Draco added angrily.

Ron perked up. "Really? Wicked!… I… I mean, that was wrong, very wrong."

"Come on, Potter, let's get to Madam Pomfrey before this grows any more humiliating."

Draco and Harry strode to the entrance of the Great Hall, where Snape met with them.

"Hello," he said. "Your father is here."

Draco went sheet-white.

"We're doomed," the Potions-Master added conversationally.

* * *

A/N: Hee! I wondered about this chapter, I really did. I could've gone to a much darker, deeper place with this, but I think people in RL are a lot less dramatic than they enjoy believing themselves to be. Most of us, most of the time, are looking for food, affection, sex, approval... not pondering the fate of the universe.

It's really good to see some of the same 'faces' again in my review box. I'm sorry I haven't been responding to them individually; it is difficult during the holiday season! I still appreciate them though, and love reading them. Thanks!


	3. Draco in the Hospital Wing

THREE: Draco in the Hospital Wing

* * *

Draco shook his head from side to side. "Excuse me?"

"Were you mishearing the 'father' part, or the 'doomed' part?" Harry wondered, but his own voice sounded hollow and strange to his ears.

"I said that your father has arrived," Snape reiterated, looking annoyed. He obviously wasn't used to repeating himself. "You wouldn't believe the things he spouted at me, the nauseating, narcissistic ass."

"I think I would," Draco said. "Can we go somewhere that's more conducive to -?"

"Talking?" Harry inquired.

" – passing out?"

Harry took Draco's arm at the elbow and followed Snape, who led the pair of them to an empty classroom, then warded it to the nines.

"He should not find out about the potion," Snape began.

"You think?" Harry quipped.

"Nor should he be made aware of the effects of the potion," the man continued.

Draco exchanged a helpless look with Harry. "He's outlining a plan," he translated, "but he's focused on the plan's ultimate goal."

"Oh," Harry said. "Well, I feel stupid."

Draco snorted. "Professor, maybe you ought to be writing on the board?"

Snape blinked. "Oh, yes, of course. I feel stupid."

Harry and Draco exchanged another glance, this one more wary. They vowed privately and silently to never, ever let Snape know how far off his internal monologue was from his actual verbiage, on pain of mutal Avada Kedavra.

Snape's first sentence was clear enough; though Snape's handwriting was thin, sharp, and difficult to read – much like the man himself. _We obviously must keep the results of the Potion from Draco's father._

Harry lifted his wand and a second piece of chalk took flight: _Right, I'm all for that… because I don't trust him. But why should Draco care? It's only a botched –_

Snape's writing was layering over Harry's. _Think about someone other than yourself for a moment, you Gryffindor fool! If you had the ability to tell, even two of three times, whether someone were lying to you…if you had such a foolproof way to listen in on their secrets, determine their _loyalties_…_

Draco nodded, and a third, green piece of chalk levitated up underneath Snape's. _Yes, and I'm afraid Daddy dearest would have me spying on various evil persons before I could blink. He might even take me to the Dark Lord, which scares the living – _He stopped. "No," he said slowly. "That's – that's not fair."

_What isn't fair, Mister Malfoy?_

When Draco only pillowed his head in his hands at one of the desks, Harry's chalk took up the dialogue.

_Malfoy swallowed some of the potion,_ he wrote, a tense expression on his face. _Sometime this afternoon, we think it took hold._

Snape was staring at Draco. "No…"

"Yes!" Draco announced, his head still buried in his folded arms – but it didn't take much imagination to divine what news of Harry's would have provoked such horror in his Potions Master. But then he rose and began to pace. "Suddenly, I _can't_ speak and avoid saying just what I'm thinking! Facing Father like this is – it's –"

"Impossible," Harry filled in.

"No need to predict my imminent _demise_, Potter," Draco spat.

_Let's not be melodramatic,_ said Snape's white chalk.

"And now I can't even _write_ lies properly!" Draco shouted. "_I'm going to die!_"

Snape's chalk jerked as if it were showing the Potions Master's irritation. _Nobody is going to die_, it snapped. _Calm yourself, Mister Malfoy. There are at least two clever wizards in this room. We can come to some kind of –_

Harry's chalk jumped excitedly in the air. _Polyjuice? One of us could pretend to be Malfoy!_

Snape sneered. "Right, Potter," he said aloud. "I have some brewing up my arse. Let me go get it for you."

"No need to get graphic," Harry grumbled.

Draco's eyes lit. "Oh, I know! We could pretend I was already dead – that way he wouldn't have to _kill me_!"

Harry's brows lifted. All right, so those were obviously the very desperate words of a very desperate boy. But they _had_ given Harry an idea. His chalk swept across the chalkboard in his own, angular writing: _he could pretend to be asleep instead of dead._

Draco rolled his eyes and Snape opened his mouth to unleash what he obviously thought would be a furious diatribe; but Harry held up one hand in the universal gesture asking for patience.

_Look,_ the chalk wrote, very quickly – in Harry's excitement, it broke, and one half fell – he ignored it –_ if we pretend that Malfoy's been injured, badly enough that he needs to sleep through the night, then you take Mr. Malfoy to see him and –_

"Got it," Snape replied succinctly. "It's the best we can do on such short notice. Draco, let's get you to the Hospital Wing. Now!" he roared, and the two teenagers jumped to their feet.

Madam Pomfrey seemed less than pleased to see them. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed.

Draco tugged urgently on her sleeve. "Hide me, Madam Pomfrey! I beg you for Sanctuary!"

"Eh?"

Snape turned to Harry. "I'm going to entrust you with this task," he said bitingly, "because I know you can work under pressure – if during no other earthly time. I'm going to go get Lucius Malfoy and begin explaining things to him. Draco had better be in bed asleep by the time we get back and you had best be scarce, or by Merlin himself, boy, you'll be in more trouble than _all the Ford Anglias in the WORLD_ can make you, do you understand me?"

Harry gulped and nodded and tried his line again: "I'll be _very careful_."

"I don't know why I bloody bother," Snape hissed and stormed out of the Wing.

Harry rapidly explained things to Madam Pomfrey while Draco shucked off his shoes and donned a hospital gown over his clothes. Harry was only happy that Madam Pomfrey could understand _him_, because he no longer had the time to write everything down.

"He'll need to _be_ asleep," Madam Pomfrey surmised, tsking and rolling her eyes at Draco's attempts; the Slytherin's silver jumper was clearly visible underneath the gown. "Lucius may be a raging bigot, but he's not too stupid to put two and two together. Fetch me the bright gold bottle on the shelves in my office, second shelf down and fifth bottle from the right. Now! Hop to!"

While Madam Pomfrey helped Draco remove his socks and, to the teen's red-faced embarrassment, his trousers, Harry shot into Madam Pomfrey's office at break-neck speed, noting a messy desk with many implements on it and a large cabinet that indubitably held the mediwitch's Potions supply. _Second shelf down… fifth bottle from the –_ "Got it!" he exclaimed.

Madam Pomfrey accepted the bottle with a tight smile and struggled briefly with the cork.

"I think I'm about to vomit," Draco said clearly.

Harry instinctively grasped his hand and rubbed some feeling back into it; the Slytherin _did_ look distinctly green, and the hand Harry had claimed was ice-cold.

Draco looked down Harry's hands in surprise, opened his mouth before shutting it again. Harry wondered what it was that he hadn't wanted to say.

"Spoon, where's the spoon?" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed.

Harry stiffened in realization. "I saw some on your desk," he said, then shot again for Madam Pomfrey's office. He was beginning to feel more than a little silly and was worried about communicating this to Draco, so he gave the implement to the mediwitch without a word.

"Here you go, Draco, Dreamless Sleep. Open up!"

Harry thought he heard approaching footsteps, but that had to be his imagination. Lucius would have had to storm down from the entrance to get here so quickly…

Draco's lips parted, but he coughed before Madam Pomfrey could get the spoon into his mouth.

"Now isn't the time for theatrics," Harry snapped. "Unless you want to be taken out of school by your father _right now_, you'd better quit it."

Harry wasn't sure what, exactly, the blond Slytherin had heard, but he was sure it wasn't anything that could have provoked such a naked, bewildered look.

"I really do – I'm sorry – I need to calm down," Draco sputtered.

"If he vomits the Dreamless Sleep, it'll be no use," Madam Pomfrey tacked on. She took Draco's other hand and began to rub it between her own as Harry had before. "Come on, dear, you can do this. Take deep breaths with me, now."

"I'm sorry," Draco babbled, "This is so ridiculous, like fainting at the sight of blood or vomiting from touching a flobberworm. I can't believe that I'm this frightened, I shouldn't be. It's not befitting to a Malfoy, and –!" He clamped his mouth shut, though Harry could not tell if it were because he realized he was babbing or because a stray thought had overtaken him that he did not wish to share.

"Talking about it makes people calmer in the long-term, not the short-term, Mister Malfoy. I suggest you find a good memory and focus on it, the way you would to produce a Patronus."

Suddenly, Harry was certain of the footsteps – and, more than that, he could hear voices arguing – Snape trying to delay Lucius's entrance.

"Oh Mer –" Draco began.

Madam Pomfrey shoved the spoon in his mouth and smiled in relief when he reflexively swallowed.

The door began to open.

Harry cast about in terror for a brief moment before rolling quickly under Draco's hospital cot.

He heard a murmured charm and the tap of a wand against Draco's sheets and blankets, which lengthened to hide him. Harry wanted to kiss the mediwitch for her quick thinking, but as it was, Lucius had already reached Draco's bedside and was rearranging his son under the covers.

"This is terribly shoddy care!" he growled. "It looks like you've let him fall where he may!"

Madam Pomfrey snorted. "Mister Malfoy is a very uncooperative patient," she said. "I had to dose him with Dreamless Sleep in order to get him to rest."

Harry grinned quietly. The response was true, but misleading, so he could hear it at least close to properly.

Mr. Malfoy drew so close to the bed that the toe of his expensive dragonhide boots peeked under the topsheet and nearly hit Harry in the nose. Said nose twitched; Harry told it mentally that unless it wanted to be cursed off of his face, it would have to be quiet. Harry timed his breathing with Draco's, which was difficult – Draco was asleep, and Harry, after all, had just run like a madman several times in succession. His lungs felt like they were bursting, but he was familiar enough with Lucius Malfoy's paranoia to make certain that he didn't cause even the slightest noise.

"What is it that happened?"

"An accident," Madam Pomfrey said, with just the right degree of disapproval. "Some sort of grudge match between Harry Potter and himself. Severus Snape brought both boys back here – Mister Potter was well enough to leave."

Harry took the moment to wonder if Madam Pomfrey had been placed in Slytherin. There _had_ been an accident at least partially due to the grudge between he and Malfoy, although Madam Pomfrey's wording certainly made it seem like a Quidditch one; Snape _had_ brought the both of them to the Wing after it had happened; and Harry had been quite well enough to leave.

"What injuries has he sustained?"

"I'm afraid his jaw was dislocated," Madam Pomfrey stated in precisely the same tone of voice. "I've healed the damage, but it still pains him. I felt it best to let him sleep for now."

Harry had time enough to briefly marvel again before he heard Lucius take a step away from Draco's side. "I do not care," he said, "so long as there is not any permanent damage."

"Of course, Mister Malfoy, of course," Madam Pomfrey replied, which wasn't any surprise to Harry; even Lucius Malfoy wouldn't say something like that aloud where others could hear him. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you or your family. Finally manage to incriminate them, hex them, perhaps?"

"How long will he be sleeping?" Lucius demanded. "I wouldn't want him to miss Quidditch, because it is a mark of status here and my son needs whatever help he can get. Also, if we don't beat Harry Potter at _something_, I may hurt someone. Possibly him."

"He should be able to play Quidditch very soon, Mister Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey replied. "Not as though you really care, you cold-hearted bastard."

"Pleasure," he replied. "Well, I suppose I'll be getting back to the Manor. I have more important things to do."

"Charmed," she replied. "And I hope you and your wife rot in Azkaban, you sadistic, blinkered monster."

Harry waited until Snape re-entered the Hospital Wing before rolling out from underneath the bed.

"This!" Snape shouted, pointing to him. "_This_ is what I'm talking about! Do you have a death wish, Potter? Are you addicted to the adrenaline? Is it your secret ambition to frighten me into a heart attack?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry said. "But I _was_ very careful. I had to stay to get Draco to take the potion, he was panicking. And then there wasn't any time to do anything but roll under the bed. Madam Pomfrey extended the covers to keep me hidden."

Snape stared at him suspiciously. "What did you say about Mister Malfoy?"

"Draco?" When Snape nodded, Harry supposed that he hadn't been conveying his thoughts well, and tried again, keeping things simple. "He was very scared. He couldn't get the potion down. That's why it took so long. But it's not his fault. If my dad were Lucius Malfoy, I'd want to vomit, too."

The rasp of cloth-on-cloth sounded behind Harry, followed rapidly by a "Shut up, Potter."

Madam Pomfrey gasped. "Mister Malfoy?"

Draco sat on the cot, his cheeks flushed and his hair messy enough to appear comical. "You gave me the wrong thing."

The mediwitch looked horrified. "Oh, no!"

"Don't panic," Draco said, scrubbing a hand through his hair impatiently. "It was the Dreamless Sleep you give to infants and small children. I think."

Snape uncorked the bottle and wafted the scent of the potion to his nose with one, long-fingered hand. "For the love of all that's –"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "It's my doing. I sent Harry to fetch it, I knew we were short on time." She worried her lower lip between her teeth. "The Dreamless Sleep is still out on my desk, I had to use it for a homesick second-year, I remember, now." She frowned at Draco. "The potion shouldn't have been enough to knock you out, just calm you down."

Draco took a deep, unsteady breath.

"It didn't," he said. "Knock me out, I mean. It didn't knock me out. I just pretended – excuse me, I have to be – somewhere – else."

And he swung rapidly out of the makeshift bed and into the corridors beyond the Hospital Wing before Harry could say a word.

Harry couldn't help but feel somewhat morose that evening in the Gryffindor common room, watching various little knots of Gryffindors converse. He hadn't been able to truly partake, so he'd asked his fellows to leave him be for awhile. His explanation, however, had been that he was tired and that being doused with the Potion had taken a lot out of him.

That hadn't stopped his close friends from assuming that he meant everyone _else_, but Harry was coping pretty well because Ginny and Neville were content to speak with each other, and because they were chatting about school and classes rather than what he was beginning to term 'the s-word'. Ginny was scribbling out a Charms essay while Neville was designing an experiment for Herbology. Occasionally they would glance at one another's papers and make a comment or two.

Considering what Seamus was meaning behind him, their conversation was like a balm on Harry's stinging ears, helping to soothe away the numerous s-word conversations as well as his completely out-of-place worries over Draco Malfoy.

It was almost ridiculous, Harry scoffed. Could Malfoy have possibly not known how his father felt about him? Lucius was willing to give Draco top-of-the-line racing brooms and designer robes; but Harry had seen very few letters, and in Draco's presence Mister Malfoy was never anything more or less than cruel. If it was so obvious to _him_, to Harry, an innocent bystander in Malfoy family life, how was it possible that Draco had not known?

Harry frowned. Maybe it hadn't been that; maybe it was just that it had stung to hear it stated so blandly, or perhaps it was that Snape and Harry were there to witness his humiliation –

"Harry?"

Harry became abruptly aware of the world around him, the Gryffindor common room coming into sharper focus. Ginny was leaning across the small table slightly, as though she were about to impart a confidence.

"Look, Harry," she began nervously, brown eyes wide and earnest. "I've liked you before I even met you, and I'd really like to be your girlfriend. Even if it's just a quick tumble," she went on while Harry's eyes widened, "I wouldn't say no; because if you don't want to go out, then I really think I need to get you out of my head. If we at least fool around a little, I might realize you're like any other boy, and maybe get over you, and I'm sure we'd both have fun... so, what do you say?"

Harry stood abruptly from his seat at their cosy little chess table and stumbled back a few steps. "That's it!" he announced to the room at large. "That's bloody it! Nobody bother me, I'm going up to my room." He turned to go, then paused, looking at Ginny. "Look, I don't know what you just said, but I can't talk about it now." And he fled.

Ginny turned to Neville, frustrated tears hanging in her eyes. "Hermione said the direct approach would work!"

He patted her shoulder comfortingly, glaring after the Boy-Who-Was-an-Insensitive-Prat. "I know, Ginny. I know."

* * *

A/N: Hee. Well, some of you said 'don't stop the hilarious talk of the sexing!', which, yes... but of course I *had* to make someone actually come on to Harry in actuality...

I was interested to note that a few people brought this idea out into RL and considered what it might be like to have to tell the truth - or hear the truth at all times - themselves. Like all of my stories, this one will eventually fumble around for some deeper meaning... but I'm encouraged and impressed by the fact that many of you are already putting yourselves in the characters' shoes.

I hate it when other authors do this, but I promise to make it quick:

First: Hi, HowardRussel! Hi excessivelyperky! Also to deitarion/SSokolow and shogi and all of my longtime readers. It's nice to see you all again, and hear from you. Esmenet gets huggled *right back* and if I forgot to mention you I suck and thank you so for reading and reviewing this fic.


	4. Five Points to Gryffindor

FOUR: Five Points to Gryffindor

* * *

"Draco! Hey, Draco!"

Draco opened bleary, stinging eyes. "Go the fuck away," he hissed angrily. Draco was normally unhappy to be woken, but today he was irrationally furious at the voice and to whomever it belonged.

"C'mon, Malfoy, you'll miss classes," Zabini said.

Draco was just awake enough to realize that the first speaker hadn't been Zabini.

Sure enough, Vincent Crabbe's head poked between the bed-hangings and shook his shoulder. "Draaaaco," he whinged.

Draco's grey eyes narrowed to bloodshot slits. "I swear by everything I hold dear," he rasped, "that if you do not remove your head from my space, I'll remove it from your body."

The curtains swished together in dramatic retreat. Vincent's voice sounded from at least a meter away, soft and contrite. "You promised you'd help me in Tranfigurations today," he went on gently, almost coaxingly. Draco doubted that anyone who did not know Crabbe well realized that he could employ such a voice, but it was what made him so successful around small, frightened creatures and Draco Malfoy.

Today, this was saying the same thing twice.

"I'm ill," Draco managed, feeling his stomach obligingly flip at the thought of being out in the world with his current… impediment.

The faint sound of unhappy, uncertain shuffling could be heard. "But who'll help me if you're…?"

"Granger," Draco replied, then winced. _Shit_.

"_Hermione_ Gronger?"

He could figure 'Hermione' but not 'Granger'. Vincent Crabbe's mind was a strange, sordid little place. "She'll help you," he said with certainty. "Go on ahead, Vince, you'll be fine… with Granger's help," he was forced to tack on, in the interest of blatant honesty: _without_ someone clever, patient and resourceful, Crabbe would _not_ be fine in any class taught by McGonagall.

Strike that last part and keep it _in any class_, Draco decided with a smirk.

More uncertain shuffling – Draco had the sudden urge to leap out of bed and shake the other boy until he ran, terrified, for the door – and a deeper urge to burrow under the blankets like some small animal and block out the noise and go to sleep. He dismissed both irrationalities as clear signs that the potion was eating his brains.

"D'you… d'you need help to the Hospital Wing?"

"No, Vince, I just feel –" He stopped, clamping his mouth shut. "Sick to my stomach."

"Well, okay," Vincent said. "Feel better, then."

Draco nodded, then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. "See you later," he verbally replied.

The fury-fueled need to strangle someone was slowly dissipating now that the temptation had been removed, the wish to be small and burrow-y overwhelming him; he could make a warren of connecting, billowing blankets and tented sheets. People would peek in past the curtains and they wouldn't see anything but that he was gone. He squirmed back under the covers and shut his eyes tightly, willing the world away.

It was at this time that the door flew open and slammed against the wall, interrupting a perfectly good spate of moping.

"Bloody hell!" Draco swore, face pressed into his pillow. "Just what does a man have to do to get some sleep around here? How many times do I have to tell you to _leave. Me. Alone!_"

A large hand reached out and flipped Draco onto his back; Draco stared up into the irate features of his Head of House and meeped eloquently.

"Ah, but it is you who are meant to come to _me_, Mister Malfoy," Snape stated in his silkiest tones, "Potions being _your first class of the day!_"

"But I – I'm –" _sick, I'm SICK, I can't because I'm – _"terrified of saying something I oughtn't, Professor, you were hit by the Potion too, you understand –"

"And yet I woke up at the godawful arse crack of dawn to remedy my lesson plans for today, Mister Malfoy. I woke and dressed and, oh – did all of those other little sundries that are required for starting one's day. I dined on breakfast in the Great Hall and listened to Albus's jokes for a soul-shattering twenty minutes. And now here I am, rescuing a truant from poor grades, lack of acceptable offers of apprenticeship, and a lifetime doomed to mediocrity."

Draco sat up in bed and scowled. "I'm hardly _truant_, professor, class hasn't begun."

"It shall in… _Tempus!_… fifteen minutes. You had best not make us late."

The Slytherin boy took his lower lip between his teeth and arranged his features into his best, most guileless expression. "Sir… there are secrets I know that I really _do_ have to be careful of. Secrets about my father… about the Malfoys… about…" – here, he lowered his voice conspiratorially – "the Dark Lord! Not to mention things that are – well, you know – more _personal_." His features pinked as he thought of the question Weasley had asked him. He _would _have his revenge. "Please, sir?"

Snape sighed deeply. "Oh, Draco," he said, placing a paternal hand on the boy's shoulder. "_No._ Not in a month of Sundays. When I am not fearing for Potter's life, I fear that your father has ruined you. Mister Potter is not exempt from his classes; what makes you so special?"

Draco winced and hung his head, his pale fringe falling into his eyes. Snape must really think that, or at least he must really have meant to imply that Draco was a spoiled brat. "You really think Father has ruined me?" His cheeks felt hot, but he had to know the answer.

Snape blinked. "Is that what you heard." It was not a question. He drew a deep breath. "You have very little control. Your altercation with Mister Potter whilst attempting to brew a very finicky and delicate potion demonstrates this. Even if you were not – personally very fond of Mister Potter," he went on, his lip curling perhaps at the thought of _anyone_ enjoying Potter's company, "a mature young man would have been able to keep his reaction to an unpleasant expression. You often want what you cannot have, and desperately yearn for it until the moment it is attained. And you just attempted to slip out of your own Head of House's class because you felt entitled to do so. These are the marks of a brash and boastful young man who has been told he is inherently, immeritoriously better than any other witch or wizard."

"But sir –"

"You _will_ come to class, and you _will_ behave properly while you are under _my_ care. Now move."

Draco, still blinking in hurt shock, moved haltingly towards his school trousers.

"Move faster! I will be waiting outside, so do not even think of dallying further."

Draco scrambled about the Slytherin dorm in double-time, tugging on trousers and shirt-with-far-too-many-complicated buttons, shrugging into cloak and mangling his shoes. He didn't even have time enough to clean his teeth.

* * *

Harry strode to Potions class with a heart full of dread. Yes, it was true that he had managed not to speak to Ron or Hermione except in nods and grunts; and they, blessed bestest friends that they were, did not attempt to force or even cajole him into conversation, including him their discourse in a benign and almost peripheral way: _Did you finish your homework for Potions, Harry?_

_Of course Harry finished it. We worked on it together. Merlin, Hermione, don't you think he has more to worry about than Potions?_

_I think that if he'd been more careful around potions in the first place, then perhaps he wouldn't be in this mess -!_

_And they're off! _Harry thought with a grimace – arguing about sex again, almost as if they didn't quite realize they no longer had to. Though their arguments now tended to be interspersed with somewhat ferocious snogs at irregular intervals.

It was in this way that they managed to reach the Potions classroom without incident. Harry moved to the table to the right of Hermione's, beckoning Ron over to work with him; the last thing that he needed was to be partnered with Malfoy again. Unfortunately, Ron was too busy arguing with Hermione to notice Harry's frantic motions; and Harry was too wary of opening his mouth.

It might attract someone's attention, and then they might want to tell him horrible, ghastly things. Such as "roll me in the hay, Harry Potter!"

Such things could not be borne.

So Harry sat down silently, and held his silent peace until Snape strode in with Malfoy in tow. The Potions Master roughly shoved Draco into the classroom ahead of him, causing the blond boy to flush as he stumbled forward a few steps.

Harry groaned as he realized that he was still partnerless, and that Malfoy was the last student to enter the room. The blond moved to their shared table in a huff, dropping himself into the chair beside Harry's with less than his usual studied grace. His _hair _was a mess. He immediately crossed his arms over his chest and proceeded to ignore Harry completely.

This was just as Harry liked it, so he returned the favor.

"You will take out your size six cast-iron cauldrons from the cabinet at the back of the room," Snape snapped. "You will read the directions on the board. You will perform the experiment. You will be VERY careful to powder the hematite finely, or you WILL explode."

Hermione raised her hand.

"You will NOT raise your hand while I am speaking. You will leave me alone to nurse my hangover in peace."

Draco smirked at that.

"Yes, _sir_," Harry mumbled, and he moved to fetch the cauldron while Malfoy picked over the potion ingredients.

"Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy?"

Harry felt his chin jerk in learned response to Professor Snape calling on him for any reason. He set the heavy cauldron on their table before moving up to the front of the room to join Malfoy.

"If you think I am allowing the two of you to work together again, after yesterday's debacle, you are leaps and bounds more foolish than I took you for."

"I already apologized for that, sir, and you took points," Harry stated firmly – then wanted to kick himself. He should be jumping for joy that Snape wanted to pair the two of them with other partners; but instead, he felt like a small child who couldn't be trusted around the better china.

"I assure you, I have no interest in being fair," the Professor stated. "Potter, you will pair with Nott; Malfoy, you will pair with Parkinson."

Malfoy set his shoulders and shook his head.

"You are on my last nerve, Mister Malfoy. Why on earth should I trust you and Mister Potter within twenty feet of a cauldron?"

"Because I want you to," Draco said.

"Pardon me?"

Draco looked at a loss for a moment before soldiering on. "I want you to see I can – I can do what we talked about. Sir."

Harry was surprised to see a strangely warm smile flicker across the Potions Master's features, so rapid he might well have imagined it. "Very well," he said. "But you do realize that this is a sort of Double Jeopardy, Mister Malfoy. If you manage to bollocks this again, my estimation of you is likely to plummet to heretofor unplumbed depths."

"I do understand that," Malfoy said, and then hurriedly yanked Harry back to their workstation by the sleeve of his robes, as though worried Snape might change his mind.

"What was that all about?" Harry demanded.

"Get out the purple loosestrife," Draco ordered, "and begin chopping it finely."

"No," Harry protested.

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, a furious expression on his face, but then he paused, mouth opening and closing like a salmon flopping helplessly on shore. His features went through strange contortions as he did so, from frowning, to cajoling, to haughty, to exasperated.

Well, that clinched it. This whole Potion business had driven Malfoy mad. "Didn't take long," Harry muttered to himself.

"Very well," Malfoy replied coolly, his features settling on 'distainful'. "I shall fetch it myself."

Harry felt himself gape as well when Draco, the picture of graciousness, returned with a handful of the tall racemes like a lovely bouquet he planned on presenting to the cauldron. He presented the bouquet to Harry, instead, who gazed down at the flowers in something like trepidation.

"Please separate the flowers and leaves from the stem, and _I'll _chop them."

"_No._"

"Potter, you're not being very helpful!" Malfoy exclaimed. His features smoothed again, however, and without the facial gymnastics, this time. "Never mind it. I shall make the potion myself. Just – try not to get in the way –"

"I won't help you _or_ stay out of your way until you tell me why you wanted us to partner," Harry snapped, arms akimbo.

Draco's brows lifted elegantly, and with perfect innocence. "Pardon?"

"Look, Malfoy, I helped you out yesterday, sure – but I'm not so naïve as to believe you're _grateful_," Harry said with a roll of his eyes. "I need to know what your plans are for this potion, and I need to know now!"

"…plans?" Malfoy had the temerity to continue to appear puzzled.

"Yeah, plans!" Harry shot back at him. "The way I figure it, you wouldn't've partnered with me unless you wanted something bad to happen!"

Malfoy worried his lower lip between his teeth briefly. "All right," he managed, slowly. "You know I can't say anything but the truth as I understand it."

Harry nodded warily.

"Well I don't have any particular _plans_ for this potion, save that it be done properly and well," the Slytherin continued slowly, "and that it prove to Professor Snape that he's wrong about me. I'm _not_ spoiled and arrogant, and I _can_ do what's right." His grey eyes stabbed at Harry, daring the other boy to contradict him. "I _can_."

"I didn't say anything."

"I saw you wanting to."

Harry saw no reason to deny it; Malfoy would hear what he meant, anyway.

"I can work with you, Potter – and you can work with me. Don't you want to prove him wrong – about the both of us?" Draco's features were set stubbornly, but his eyes pleaded with Harry.

Before Harry's mind rose a vision of Snape looking into his cauldron, not able to avoid telling him that it was well-done – Harry would _know_ if Snape approved of the potion or not, no matter how critical his actual words were. His lips curled back from his teeth in what was half-grin, half- baring-of-teeth. "You're on."

"Separate the leaves and the flowers from the stems," Malfoy ordered.

Wryly shaking his head, Harry put his hands to work.

* * *

The last step of the potion was the trickiest, and Harry was convinced that this was precisely why Snape had chosen it out of all the many Potions that fit within the same basic criterion for cost of ingredients and approximate skill level: if a student screwed this one up, he had to start from scratch. Behind Harry and Malfoy, Lavender and Parvati had already done so; and Crabbe and Goyle had done so twice.

Harry and Draco had completed the process up until now in near-complete silence, broken intermittently by hurried questions or careful commands. They had set their Potions texts on either side of the cauldron, so that they could both follow along, catching one another's mistakes.

Harry withdrew the small, clear glass phial on their table and peered at the vibrant orange anthers within.

"Saffron is very volatile," Draco stated.

Harry stared. It was the first piece of information that the other boy had offered that wasn't strictly necessary to their shared task. "Why?"

"Why is it volatile?"

When Harry nodded, Draco paused, as though he were considering whether he ought to answer or not. Harry could hardly blame him; they seemed to argue when – well, when either one of them opened his mouth.

"Roots are stable. They have heavier elements in them, metals, strong, tightly bound energies. When you release their magic, it's powerful but slow – comes out at a trickle."

Harry blinked. "So a flower…"

"Has less heavy, deep energy – more light, volatile energy. And it releases its magic all at once because it – sort of doesn't have a good hold on the magic it _does_ have."

Harry's lips parted in sudden surmise. "Is that why we have to powder it super-finely?"

Draco nodded. "If we don't, it won't combine with the mixture properly. Each big clump of saffron would release its magic in some parts of the potion and not in others, and the cauldron could –"

Harry glanced back at Lavender and Parvati's table, which was splattered with half-finished potion; although luckily this potion in particular was not toxic, and quite inert towards the end of its brewing. "That's interesting," he said, meaning it.

Malfoy swallowed. "I am? I guess – maybe. So are you, though."

Harry had no idea what Draco had just heard him say, but he suspected he'd complimented the Slytherin. He shrugged.

"I never – I mean I hadn't thought of what I'd do after school. Except –" Malfoy flushed.

"Take up the family business," Harry filled in, used, now, to the strange shifts in conversation precipitated by the workings of the potion.

Draco frowned. "Let's not talk about this – unless you really want to end up covered in potion again."

Harry shook his head. "How much longer?"

Draco looked up at the hourglass he'd tipped. "Two more minutes or so."

"Better get to powdering this." Harry uncorked the phial of saffron anthers and tipped them into the Potions classrooms' smallest mortar-and-pestle set. He worked on them assiduously, twisting his wrist to make certain that the anthers powdered properly. It was harder work than he'd suspected; the anthers were supple with their own oils even though they weren't fresh; and they didn't seem particularly interested in becoming powder.

Professor Snape swooped around to their cauldron, staring at it, wafting the fumes towards his considerable nose and generally glaring as though the cauldron had insulted his mother. He swept away without a word.

"I think Professor Snape believes that if you can't say something nasty, don't say anything at all," Harry quipped, handing the mortar and pestle off to Draco.

Malfoy snickered under his breath as he hunted down any remaining recognizable bits of anther with the pestle. The last grain of sand fell from the top of the hourglass, and both Harry and Draco sprinkled pinches of saffron into their brew, ever-so-carefully.

Harry held his breath.

Ever-so-slowly, the contents of the cauldron tinged a vibrant gold, the gold of sunflowers and lightning bugs and cloth from India. Draco's breathing hitched, and he took a hasty step away from the cauldron. Harry, darting an anxious look to his partner, rapidly followed suit.

A series of little pops sounded from the cauldron; a few drops of potion landed on their shared table, gently splattering Harry's text with bright and vibrant colour. Then there was a quiet hiss.

Harry and Draco sidled up to the cauldron.

"It's right," Draco said as they stared into the cauldron at its slowly-congealing contents. "Sweet Merlin, Potter, it's right! Quick – douse the flames!"

Harry fumbled for his wand and did so. He stared in disbelief for a moment at the ointment forming in the cauldron. It was actually – attractive to look at, a more mellow gold than it had been before, now that the beeswax and lanolin base was solidifying. And it didn't smell half-bad.

Harry realized for the first time that he was looking at something akin to Scaradicate Salve, just like the kind Madam Pomfrey had on hand all the time. "Wow," he murmured.

"We are Potions geniuses," Malfoy intoned, looking up and unthinkingly sharing a triumphant grin with Harry.

"I shall be the judge of that," Professor Snape intoned, leaning in over their size six cast-iron.

Harry decided that if he hadn't been watching closely, he could easily have missed the expression of incredulous surprise that flitted across his professor's features. But he could hardly have missed what Professor Snape said next:

"See me after class."

Harry slumped, and sensed Malfoy beside him doing the same. What had they done wrong? It looked exactly like the one in their textbook! Harry sneaked a glance over at Hermione and Neville's potion. Even theirs didn't look so very smooth and perfect.

Harry stomped over to the front of the room to gather up glass jars. He and Malfoy did their best to ladle the completed potion into them before it set. Harry attempted to rub the splattered potion away from his text, but only succeeded in rubbing the cheery gold into the entire page more or less evenly. He and Malfoy packed up their things and waited.

"Do you really think I'm a good teacher?" Draco inquired after two whole minutes of utter quiet.

Harry snorted. Likely, that had been a personal best for Malfoy. "When did I say that?"

"When I was talking about the magic in roots and flowers, Potter, of course." He sighed in realization. "You didn't say that."

"No," Harry agreed.

They sat in stillness for another few moments, while Draco's discomfiture grew.

"…but I must have meant it," Harry tacked on. "I mean, I had to've. Snape sure never told us that stuff. Where'd you learn it?"

"Private tutors," Draco commented.

"Oh."

There was another, shorter pause, before Malfoy spoke again: "I _am _grateful, by the way."

"Huh? Grateful for what?"

Malfoy wet his lips and examined the scuffed and potion-stained floor. "You said that you're not naïve enough to suppose I'm grateful to you for what happened yesterday. But of course I am. You helped me – I owe you."

Harry giggled a bit, nervously. "You should hear yourself – you can't know what you're saying."

"Of course I do," the blond Slytherin snapped. "Don't you _recall _yesterday? I can't lie anymore, and I hear –" He winced, eyes trailing up to his Head of House. "I hear _everything_."

"Then why – ?"

"I _have_ to tell the truth, Potter. Maybe for the rest of my life. I think I'd better get used to it; don't you?"

Harry examined the other boy in the dim light of combined wall sconces and ambient magic. Draco looked – pained, but determined to make the best of things. Harry knew that feeling very well.

"And haven't you noted how little we've misunderstood one another?" the other boy continued. "You're getting used to it too, aren't you?"

Harry swallowed, but his throat was dry. "Used to what?"

"To speaking the truth. Around me anyway. Right?" Draco pressed.

An anxious feeling fluttered in Harry's gut, although he wasn't certain why it was causing him worry to admit this to the other boy; it obviously wasn't anything that Draco hadn't already worked out for himself. "Y-yeah," he stammered.

"Right," Draco stated confidently.

Harry had been so wrapped up in their conversation that he hadn't noticed that Potions class was over until someone's robes rasped against his cheek as they strode past. He shook off the strange feeling and stood out of habit before realizing that they were meant to stay and speak with Snape.

Once the classroom had completely emptied, Snape swooped over to the pair. He picked up one of their filled jars and tossed it into the air, catching it one-handed. "Five points to Slytherin," he said. "Five points to Gryffindor." He glared at them. "I won't be saying anything else, so get out of my sight."

* * *

In the hallway outside of Potions, Ron and Hermione waited for Harry. Hermione was chattering on about the state of her potion, obviously thrilled to have been able to work on such a finicky and useful brew. Ron occasionally cut in.

"Yes, Hermione, that's the most boring thing I've ever heard."

"…and then I _thought_ I might've added just a shade too much comfrey – that, or too little –"

"…which is now officially the _second_-most boring thing I've ever heard."

"…so I thought I might counter it with some _Hydrastis_, and –"

"…for Merlin's sake, Hermione – you're such a swot."

Harry flushed on the bushy-haired girl's behalf. Ron really didn't mean that –

_Except that he has to. He does – he _must_._

Draco elbowed roughly between Ron and Hermione, and by the time he passed through the closely-knit trio, Ron was nursing a jabbed rib and a mangled foot. "What the hell is _his_ problem?"

Harry, hiding a smile, thought that Draco's problem was also his problem, and Snape's. He slung an arm across Hermione's shoulders and grinned at her.

Hermione blushed and peered at him from underneath thick brown lashes. "Aren't you in a good mood?" she commented slyly.

Harry thought on this. "Weird Potions side-effects aside, I'm having a rather remarkable day."

* * *

Author's Notes: Hi, everybody! I hope you're having a marvelous January.

To skywisechan: remember that Harry is hearing what *others* mean as they speak - therefore his own reply would neither have emerged differently nor have been heard by him in any way other than precisely as he said it. It's Draco who is consigned to speaking the truth, not Harry.

To Howl: yes, Hermione realizes what's going on - but only to a certain extent. She can't tell when Harry is hearing something different and when it's coming through properly.

To all: thank you so for reviewing - it's really great to see so many familiar 'faces'! :)

Sorry this one's a bit later than the others. Thanks as always for reading and reviewing.


	5. Things Are Seldom So Bad They Cannot

FIVE: Things Are Seldom So Bad that They Cannot Get Worse

* * *

Snape, the quintessential Slytherin bastard, seemed strangely unbothered by Harry and Draco understanding his true feelings on any subject. He kept right on haranguing his students, even in Harry's own class, where Draco and Harry could clearly tell that he drank on the weekends, that he wondered how he'd become a teacher at Hogwarts, that he despaired of most of his students ever truly understanding his subject.

"You have to watch it, do you see?" he informed the class, leaning towards the sample potion on his desk and narrowing his eyes in concentration. "Note how the smoke's turned pearlescent. Can anyone tell me why? Potter!"

"The potion is thickening, sir."

With the way Snape's lip curled, Harry knew he was being harangued in _bona fide_ Snape fashion, but his professor's meaning was much more upsetting. "Always going for the easy answer, Potter, aren't you? Find something that makes just enough sense and stop talking, stop thinking. That isn't the whole answer, as you are perfectly aware."

Harry flushed, and ducked his head. Maybe Snape didn't mind Harry hearing the truth so much because it got him much better results with Harry than his usual distemper.

After they had taken the usual ream of notes, Snape walked around the classroom re-distributing their written exams on truth and Truth Potions, which contained several ethical questions as well as simple factual ones, complete with diagrams of brewing. Harry had a D etched across the top of his paper in violent red ink. Scrawled across various sections of the paper were such comments as: _odd how even such personal experience cannot dent your disinterest in scholarship _and _an orangutan might have better reasoning skills._ Harry now knew that when Snape meant to be biting he was mostly disappointed, but still he felt the flame of anger in his gut; he'd studied really hard, or – well, he'd thought really hard about the topics.

Snape looked at him with what appeared to be anger and wondered, aloud, "don't you care about what _happens_ to you, Potter, or do you suppose the Dark Lord will not predecease you?"

Harry whitened, experiencing the now-familiar off-balance feeling he got whenever around his Potions Professor for too long at a go. Snape had such a different view of the world that sometimes it was dizzying. "I'll try to be very careful," he said with conviction.

Snape's lips quirked, and his eyes met Harry's for one moment of unexpected shared humor. "You keep saying it, so it must be true," he murmured. "Now: try harder in the future. Life before him existed, and life after him shall as well. You must plan on it."

Harry nodded, shaken, and gazed again at his paper. He didn't want his schoolwork to be Dreadful, because he was going to have a life someday, and who knows what he might need? Intellectually he knew this, but it was hard to imagine a life without Voldemort around to muck things up.

And he had to wonder what, in his own personal lexicon, 'careful' really meant.

* * *

Malfoy partnered with Harry in Potions practicals all that week. Together, the two chopped and simmered, powdered and extracted ingredients with very little in the way of any sort of communication other than a pointed finger or an eloquent gesture. But it was only when Draco physically tugged at his sleeve and held up three fingers emphatically – _no! _three_ bubotubers!_ – that Harry finally became suspicious.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry inquired lowly as Malfoy strided off to Charms ahead of them, "have you heard Malfoy say anything lately?"

"Well of course," Hermione replied.

Ron joined them a moment later, juggling his Potions and Charms books and a half-capped inkwell.

"Ron," Harry began as the redheaded boy squished his belongings into a slightly neater pile, "this might be an odd question, but have you heard Malfoy talking to anyone in the past few days?"

"Can't get that git to shut up," was Ron's distracted reply.

At first, Harry had figured that Snape's offhand comments about Galleons not counting for much might have actually stuck, the way Snape's constant appeals to Harry's honor seemed to. The blond had certainly seemed more receptive, more subdued, more thoughtful. Now Harry was beginning to realize that what he was seeing wasn't a thoughtful Malfoy, but one _in absentia._

Harry frowned. Was he really the only one who had noticed that Malfoy would rather stay silent than say what he really meant? Harry wasn't sure if that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard, or just smart, strategic, _Slytherin_.

"Harry!"

Harry shook his head free of cobwebs. "Hermione… sorry. Got a little lost in my own head for a minute."

"We're at Charms, you great lummox," she replied fondly. "Come _along_, Ron."

Ron trailed in after them and they found a few empty spots clustered together. Harry saw an empty seat by a shock of white-blond hair, though, and wove his way to seat himself by the other boy, wanting to see if his suspicions were correct.

Pansy Parkinson entered the Charms room with a pair of giggling Slytherin girls behind her; she met Draco's eyes and gave a surprisingly shy smile. Draco nodded at her in turn, and there was something a bit more intimate, a bit less than royal in the way he inclined it. Harry couldn't've said what it was.

Class began with a review of the mood-altering charms which they had covered that month, then launched into an introduction to the _Introspectus_, which could be used when one needed to deeply consider a new idea, or re-work an old one. "Sometimes we may grow too attached to familiar ideas," Flitwick announced. "They become like old, beloved jumpers. We grow sentimental, reluctant to let them go, even once we have far outgrown them. _Introspectus _can help a witch or wizard work through his or her ideas, weeding out the ones that are no longer meaningful, putting those cherished little trinkets to rest once and for all. I myself perform the spell at least once a year – Spring cleaning," he tacked on, and the class laughed agreeably. Then the little Charms professor instructed them to go through all of their mood-altering charms, starting and ending with _Introspectus_.

Harry hardly thought he needed it, but he gamely partnered with Draco and let the other boy cast on him. He thought it was strange how none of the Slytherins looked at them sideways, and Ron and Hermione hadn't even tried partnering up with him. He supposed they were getting used to he and Draco partnering in Potions, so it wasn't like it was something all that odd. Except that Snape had forced them, in Potions. Or – at least at first.

"_Introspectus_," Draco said, confidently. His voice sounded a little quieter than usual, though.

Suddenly, Harry realized he should probably just talk to Draco. After all, it wasn't like the other boy could lie to him. At the worst, he would continue to stay silent.

"_Introspectus!_" Harry incanted.

Draco tilted his head to one side in query: an _is it working_? look.

"You've stopped speaking. At all! Don't think I haven't noticed."

The Slytherin boy frowned, drummed his fingers once on the table, tilted his head in that peculiar way again, and_ answered_. "And?"

It was a good lead-in, as lead-ins go. "So – you can't. I mean, you can't think you're never going to talk for the rest of your life!"

Draco's ice-cold features softened, and Harry realized he must've heard that for the concern it really was. Once again, Malfoy took a moment to answer. It was as though he didn't speak Harry's language, and was waiting for some kind of translation charm to finish.

Perhaps it wasn't Harry's words that he was translating, but his own response: rearranging it so it meant something, so it was no more and no less than what Draco meant to say.

"Of course I'm going to talk. I'm talking right now. My larynx thrives, it blossoms." He frowned. "Maybe you haven't realized what percentage of what you say is actually a lie."

"I'm not a liar –"

This time the response was immediate. "How much of what you've heard lately has been what people really meant to say? We're all liars. All I'm doing is stopping those lies, now, before they emerge." He snorted. "It's not a wonder how little is left."

Flitwick interrupted them with the directive to move on from _Introspectus_ to their other charms. It was a good thing he'd brought a temporary halt to their conversation, because Harry had no answer to that.

"Maybe it'll get easier," he improvised. "Maybe you'll get used to it."

"I have, a little," Malfoy replied, swinging his wand. "There's a Cheering Charm. Is it working?"

Harry felt his spirits lift a jot. "Yeah, a bit. Thanks."

"It's not like I'm trying to cheer you up, Potter. It's next on the list," Malfoy replied.

And then the charm must've been working all right, because something in Draco's deadpan delivery made Harry grin at him and shake his head.

"It's very odd, you know," the Slytherin added, unprompted for once. "There's this whole internal world I have to myself, now, that I didn't have before. It used to be that anyone could have my opinion on anything, anytime they asked, and lots of times they didn't."

Harry waved his own Cheering Charm Malfoy's way.

Draco smiled at him beatifically. "It's a bit like going from being a prostitute to being a nun," he tacked on, which Harry knew he wouldn't have done without the Cheering Charm making him all relaxed and friendly. "Now I've really got to _think_, I mean seriously _think_ about things before I open my mouth because what I'm thinking on the surface might not be the truth as I see it, and if it _isn't_, I just should try not to speak, you see? Because if I did, I'd say something I hadn't meant to."

"I got it," Harry replied. "I think you need a _Finite_."

For the next several minutes, they were quiet, exchanging Cheering Charms and _Cumulo Nimbus_, Memory Jinx and the Rejuvenation Charm.

"All right now, class," Flitwick interrupted. "We have very little time left, so spend the rest of your time focusing on _Introspectus_."

Harry cast _Introspectus_ once more.

Draco's brow furrowed in thought, and his thoughts seemed to tumble, for once, from his mind to his tongue. "I never used to think much about what I was going to say before I said it, before the potion. And once those words were out there, I had to just keep acting like the things I'd said were true, no matter what. Felt like I was going to lose, somehow, if I ever admitted I'd been wrong. It was like I was bound to what I'd said. _Introspectus_."

"Like your words became public property, like other people had them once you'd let them go," Harry filled in with a sudden flash of insight.

"Yes! Exactly. You are brilliant, sometimes."

Harry grinned. "Sometimes it's okay to tell the truth. I don't mind, even when you're rude. _Introspectus_."

"You still don't really understand," Malfoy protested, deflating. "I'm giving away pieces of myself every time I open my mouth. _Introspectus._"

"Isn't that normal? Every time you say anything, you're revealing pieces of yourself, whether it's the truth or not."

Draco's lips twisted. "No. That's what a lie is, even a well-meaning one: it's the refusal to give someone any part of you. The only people without that refuge are the cursed like me." He paused. "And the insane."

Harry worried his lower lip between his teeth as something important suddenly occurred to him. "All those _Introspecti_ and this is the first time I realize we haven't actually _Finite_'d any of them," he commented.

Draco laughed loudly, and – it must have been – honestly. "Oh dear," he replied. "_Finite Introspecti_."

Harry cast the same on himself, and blinked as he realized that the class was finishing up. Apparently one of the side-effects of _Introspectus_ was that you stopped being able to focus on anything but the problem at hand. "Sorry," he added, "it's not like I have any better ideas. I just –" He paused, thinking of ways of couching his concern that didn't sound like he was _really _worried over Malfoy of all people, then shook his head free of the thought. If he felt concerned, he had only two choices: express that concern honestly, or say nothing at all. No matter what, Malfoy would hear the meaning behind his words.

"I just don't want you to never _speak_ again," Harry concluded rather helplessly.

He could only imagine how that had emerged, because Draco's pale eyes widened, and then he gulped. "Uhm… thank-you," he replied, looking a little self-conscious, which was definitely a new look for Malfoy.

Harry wondered what on earth he'd said, but his nerves felt a little too jangled to ask directly. "So… yeah," he added.

"Sorry," Malfoy replied, which meant that Harry's emotions were getting away from him, and what was coming out of his mouth no longer bore any resemblance to what he was thinking on the surface.

That was his cue to end the conversation. He wasn't altogether sure why he was spending so much time around Malfoy anyway, except that they were sort of in this together. "See you, Malfoy," Harry waved at the Charms doorway, flanked by Ron and Hermione. It looked like Draco was staying behind to ask Flitwick a question.

Draco turned, that new, thoughtful look on his face, and paused. Then a haughty, "things are seldom so bad as they seem to _you_, Potter," which was obscurely comforting.

Harry had to wonder when Malfoy'd become the mature one in all of this.

* * *

Harry's dreams turned strange that night. In them, everyone spoke the truth, and any time they did, they removed a finger, or a slice of flesh or a lock of hair and traded it with someone else. In the manner of dreams, none of this appeared very painful, though the blood oozed in a way he felt he should find more disturbing.

He found Malfoy at the end of a long corridor, and he traveled a long while to reach him. When he finally caught the other boy he took him by the shoulders, because it seemed very important Harry get his attention. Malfoy's eyes met his and the pale-haired boy shook his head slowly in negation.

"You're coming with me!" Harry shouted, just as he realized Malfoy had seemed to anticipate his question and disagree. Well, that was just Malfoy, who'd disagree with the sun for shining and the grass for growing. Harry was having none of it. "You've got to, it's dangerous here!"

Draco shook his head again and smiled. "I can't go, Harry," he said. "I said too much and now I can't get away." He gestured down at his legs with one pale hand and Harry realized that the blackness of the hallway was covering an _absence_ just below Draco's hips –

He jolted awake. His stomach flipped and roiled, but he didn't think he was going to vomit if he just sat quietly for a moment.

He sat.

Then he rose – carefully, still not trusting his rebellious stomach – and withdrew the Marauder's Map from its hidey-hole in his trunk.

Ron made some sort of noise of sleepy inquiry, but Harry paid him no mind. "Shh, Ron," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"Mrmmmmm, sleeeepppp," Ron mumbled into his pillow.

Harry unfolded the Map with shaking fingers and tapped his wand to it. "_I solemnly swear I am up to no good,_" he incanted, and ink flew from his wand to the parchment, tracing out the lines of classrooms and hallways, dormitories and offices.

Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found.

Harry checked twice, just to be absolutely certain, but there was no dot labeled _Draco Malfoy_. Unless the boy he thought was Draco was someone else entirely, perhaps a Polyjuiced Death Eater, he was gone. Still holding the Map, Harry began to pull himself into his trousers and a jumper, eyeing the Map one last time in hopes he were wrong, or that there were some part of the castle of which he was unaware, some secret passage only Malfoy knew… but he doubted that the Marauders had missed any nook or cranny.

He next searched for Severus Snape. There the man was, in his office of all things at this hour. Walking back and forth, by the looks of it.

Harry's heart was in his mouth and he had no logic persuasive enough to press it back where it belonged. He stuffed his feet into his trainers, sockless, grabbed his cloak and the Map, and took the stairs down to the dungeons two at a time.

* * *

A/N: Eek! It's been awhile, no? But my NaNoWriMo promise is to finish all the fics I started but haven't completed. Except, sadly, for JSF because it's not even 1/4 of the way completed. You'd be surprised, however, at how many fics I've got that are halfway or three-quarters of the way through... and then they sit there. So I'm working on those.

There's the Ranma story WIP, this one, A Game of Chess (a weird re-do fic that I'm enjoying), the sequel to SoS, and a story much like YLNO or at least inspired by it. If I get half of those finished, I'll be overjoyed. I know it's not the letter of the NaNoWriMo law, but it is in the spirit of it. I hope to have some more stuff done soon!

This story has one, maybe two more chapters left in it. ;)

-K


	6. The Squirrel Torture is Conjecture

BOOK TWO: Draco

ONE: The Squirrel Torture is Conjecture

* * *

What Draco thought was funniest was the strange behavior of the Death Eaters: like he existed in an uncomfortable limbo between prisioner and honored guest. One moment, Crabbe and Goyle Seniors were hustling him along ahead of them like a Muggle about to burn. The next, they were inquiring after his health, asking him how he was liking his classes. It was very befuddling.

Draco, for his part, had been convinced he was going to die since his father's features had appeared in the Slytherin fireplace two hours before. As a result, he had entered a strange, zen-like state of mind that was beyond fear. One could, apparently, only gibber for so long before that switch flipped into the off position.

Maybe the _central switchboard_ felt like it was in the off-position. But Draco wasn't worried; he didn't expect to survive long enough for madness to be an issue.

As they marched forward, Draco took in his surroundings, finding little else to occupy his empty mind. He was deep, deep underground, it seemed, in a catacomb of caves that were damp with condensation. If Draco concentrated, he thought he could hear a waterfall someplace far off. The rock was brown with jagged intrusions of a silvery, shimmery substance.

Finally, they reached the end of the maze, a pair of heavy doors – it took all Crabbe Senior and Goyle Senior's muscle to part them – and walked through.

Draco's father stood next to Lord Voldemort. They both looked so blasted pleased with themselves that Draco very nearly got angry.

Nearly.

Instead, "hullo," he said.

Lucius blinked. Voldemort blinked too, only it was far scarier on his part because he apparently had two sets of eyelids.

_Eww._

"Draco," Lucius said, recovering quickly, "come forward and meet our master."

Draco heard the hired muscle closing the heavy doors behind him. He knew he wouldn't be able to open them on his own, and he suspected they were charmed against entry and exit with a wand.

(Or perhaps Crabbe and Goyle Senior were just too stupid or too inept or both to use a charm to open and close them. Draco would keep it in mind.)

Draco strode forward and nodded at his father and at the Dark Lord, who smiled. Again, quite creepily: he had fangs.

"So, the young scion of the house of Malfoy has come to take his place in my ranks," Lord Voldemort said.

Huh. Draco hadn't been expecting that; he'd thought he was here to die. "But you don't want me," Draco said, surprised when his voice emerged sounding perfectly normal. Calm.

"Draco!" Lucius snapped, then paused and sweetened his voice. "That is very noble of you, my son, but now is not the time for false modesty."

"I'm not modest," Draco said, still feeling strange. It was almost as though he were watching someone else's actions rather than participating in the scene at all. "I am highly skilled in many arenas. No, my Lord. You don't want me because I'm cursed."

Voldemort leaned forward. "I am intrigued in spite of my best intentions," he replied, and Draco watched as his lips moved in a totally different manner than the words would imply.

"I can only tell the truth," Draco said. "The moment someone cornered me, I'd tell them everything. I wouldn't mean to, but I wouldn't be able to help it."

"How did this happen?" the Dark Lord inquired, eyes narrowing. Draco knew he was looking for a lie, but felt no anxiety. He would be unable to find one.

"A Potions accident while making Veritaserum," Draco replied. "I also," he went on, closing his eyes tightly but unable to stop himself, "only hear what others mean to say."

"I'm uncertain what you're implying," Voldemort told him.

Draco tilted his head to one side; the motion felt mechanical, even to him. "Rather than hear people word-for-word, I hear instead what they mean by what they say. Even if that makes me an asset – I'm sure I could ferret out spies and judge information in the field – the former makes me totally unsuitable."

"Not if I were to keep you here," the Dark Lord said. "Forever. Or at least until the war's won."

Draco gulped as the thought of that pierced through the fog permeating his brain. He'd thought he only had to prepare himself for death. "You wouldn't like having me around," he blurted.

Voldemort frowned. "Lucius, leave us. Your son and I must have… a conversation."

"But, my lord!"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" it seemed like Voldemort snapped. "Your status will remain more or less as it ever was, regardless of your sons' ham-handedness at Potions! Now get out of my sight!"

Lucius scurried.

When he was gone, and they were all alone (_Joy!_ thought Draco) Voldemort turned to him once more. "Now explain to me why I should not like having you around."

Draco took in a shaky breath. "I would like to avoid answering that."

"And if you try, I shall have to torture it out of you," the Dark Lord replied in the sort of pleasant, everyday voice ordinary wizards used to talk about having to buy a few new pairs of socks.

"Right. Well, then. First of all, I'm a ruddy coward. I'm spoilt and I don't like being here, so I'd begin to whinge immediately. It's cold, it's damp, you're here and you scare me. And everyone else as well, which would make them tiresome. And then there's the fact that I don't believe in what you're fighting for, kind of at all, I had sort of a crush on Hermione Granger there for a bit after she slapped me that one time." Draco huffed and closed his eyes, awaiting the Killing Curse.

But when he opened his eyes, Voldemort was staring at him with a combination of incredulity and… something.

Something that made Draco very, very nervous.

"That expression you're wearing makes me very, very nervous," he said.

"You could be of use to me after all," Voldemort clarified his imprecise expression. "You could tell me the things no one else will."

"No one actually wants that," Draco protested with a frown. "They think they do, but they don't. They think the truth is pleasant, or they think the truth is valuable in and of itself. I've learned it's not."

"On the contrary," Voldemort replied, "that which is scarce becomes valuable, and truth for the taking is scarce. Those who speak the truth moreso. It is the one thing, with all the wizards in the world who tremble at my name, that I cannot purchase at any price. Therefore, it is the thing I most desire."

"You don't actually want me to," Draco retorted. "You'd kill me if I tried."

Voldemort paused, eyeing Draco shrewdly. "In Ancient times, kings had jesters… fools. They were truth-tellers, able to insult any man at court. They were immune from persecution."

"You're saying I would be your Fool? That sounds about right."

"I am saying you would not be held accountable for the truths you choose to tell."

"I can't trust you," Draco said. "How good is the word of someone without a soul?"

The Dark Lord froze, and Draco took a sliding step backward, as though that would help if the monster attacked.

"I figured it out a long time ago," Draco murmured, unable to stop himself. "How else do you keep coming back? There's only one way, unless you're an Inferi. I heard from Father what happened in the Chamber of Secrets, and there are all sorts of books at home that mention Horcruxes. I was thirteen when I put it all together."

The expression on the Dark Lord's face gave Draco the impression he wanted to bang his head against the wall, but was resisting, manfully.

"You're not even really a person anymore," Draco observed, looking at Voldemort's double-lidded eyes, his slits for nostrils; the way he didn't even sit like a man, move like a man. "You've taken away so much of yourself that you probably have trouble remembering why you started all this. Do you look back at your motivations with any hope of understanding them?"

The Dark Lord stared at him. "I refuse to see how –"

"Have you heard the tale about the young woman whose love was stolen away by the Fairy Queen?" Draco said in sudden inspiration. "The Queen told her that she could keep her young man if only she could hang on to him. He changed into many different beasts, and finally into a hot coal, but she kept holding on. What do you think it means?"

The Dark Lord frowned, looking puzzled. "I'll admit this is… different. And entertaining enough to entertain. Go on."

"I always thought it didn't make sense," Draco replied. "Does it really follow that you should you hold on to what you love regardless of the danger, even if it has changed its nature entirely? I always thought he should stay a hot coal in the end, just to show her. Things change, people change. But they seldom change _back_."

Voldemort paused; his eye slits narrowed, until they were even slittier. "Are you mocking the Dark Lord?"

Draco offered up his most innocently wounded expression. "No; I would never mock anyone with a name like _The Dark Lord_. It's far too intimidating."

Voldemort looked surprisingly mollified.

"I mean: despite the fact that you face so much resistance – Dumbledore and Potter and the Ministry, not to mention dark, damp, smelly caves – you continue hanging on to the hot coal. Merlin, you _are_ the hot coal, and you're also the man gripping it."

Voldemort stared. "I'm not sure I like this," he meant but didn't say.

"Well," Draco said, "you get what you pay for. I am what it says on the label."

The Dark Lord's arms lifted a bit and then settled back on his lap; Draco decided that he would have liked to have crossed his arms.

"Do you ever wonder what you've missed?" Draco inquired. "Losing pieces of yourself, I mean."

"The Chinese say that the soul falls naturally into ten parts," Voldemort said. "I still have two more I could rip away."

"Even you say 'rip away," Draco murmured. "Funny."

"You think I would have been better as a man? Kinder? Saner?" Voldemort laughed, and the laugh turned every hair at the back of Draco's neck. "What a charming, sorry little delusion," he whispered. "I was the boy everyone warned you about," he went on. "The one who tortured squirrels out by the railroad tracks to hear them scream."

"So was I," Draco said. "Kicked House Elves and called people the filthiest names I could think of, and once I broke a girl's heart because I thought it'd be funny. And here I am, proposing you put yourself back together."

Voldemort stared.

"I'd start the _we are not so different, you and I _speech," Draco offered thoughtfully, "but we sort of are. You're a lot braver than I am, for one thing. I don't think I could have gone so far as you. You're also madder, but I'm pretty sure that's because you're all in pieces. When did the first part crack off?"

Draco watched as the Dark Lord's throat worked, and could hardly believe it. He could hardly breathe, he dared not move.

"I was fifteen," he finally said.

Draco blinked. "My age," he whispered. _It's hard to believe_ "…you were ever that age," Draco said, staring up at Voldemort.

"Potter destroyed that one," Voldemort added with a curl of his lip.

"What happened to you when he…?"

Voldemort shook his head. "I wasn't around to feel it, so to speak."

"But a big part of your soul was destroyed. Was – was that your first?"

"Yes."

"What did you lose, then? Once you'd woken up you I mean."

"It's impossible to tell; as I'd lost it, how would I know it were gone?"

Draco was quiet.

"I don't remember anything before age fifteen," Voldemort finally said, and Draco was surprised to see that the motion of his lips – such as they were – fitted his words exactly.

"So the part about squirrel torture is conjecture then?" Draco pressed.

Voldemort shrugged. "Look who I've become. It seems men like me come from backgrounds of squirrel-torture. It is a reasonable assumption."

"It's impossible to get that back?" Draco checked. "It's gone."

"Gone," Voldemort agreed. "And good riddance. The time between birth and the early teenage years are a wasteland anyway. Go ahead: disagree."

Draco thought about this a moment. "Life hasn't exactly been coming up roses _lately_."

"Hrmph," said Voldemort.

* * *

Draco wandered the caves with impunity, but of course they were impenetrable: heading in the direction of the doors gave him an incapacitating migraine.

The day after Draco's first conversation with the Dark Lord, his father returned, bearing clothing, toiletries, and a few of Draco's favorite foods, clearly cooked up by the House Elves he'd so enjoyed kicking as a child. But there were no books, there was no music; his father had not been so thoughtful as to include even a spare bit of parchment and an inkwell for drawing.

_How are you?_ he asked. _Your mother wants to know._

Draco hid the rest of the day, tucked into an alcove with a brightly-colored tin of his favorite marzipan pignoli cookies. Voldemort found him when he stood, brushing the crumbs from the front of his robes.

"You are bored," he observed.

"Those of us with souls need something to occupy them other than world conquest," Draco snapped.

It wasn't that he was no longer afraid of Voldemort, even if the monstrosity had moved from monster to man over the course of a conversation. It was that he knew, despite the Dark Lord's promise, that he would die at his hand eventually, and he didn't feel like dragging things out, or Merlin forbid, getting _comfortable._

The next day, Draco woke to find that his cell had been outfitted with a simple bed, bookshelf, and music stand. A tiny Irish flute sat upon it.

Draco spoke with the Dark Lord once a day. In between, he read _Paradise Lost_ and stumbled through the use of the Irish flute, which he'd never seen before, much less attempted to play. He thought his father and the Dark Lord were the same: they both liked pretending he was more to them than a wand to the hand, power flowing wherever they pointed. He wished Voldemort would strike him, torture him. He wished his father would admit, aloud, _meaning to say it_, that he felt nothing more for Draco than for a new pair of boots, meant to be displayed, trod on, and tossed in the bin once they were no more use.

* * *

A week passed with excruciating slowness. Draco fiddled with the Irish flute until he learned how to blow a perfect note, to have it emerge clarion and sweet.

* * *

"Could you put one back? A piece of your soul, I mean," Draco inquired one night over supper.

Voldemort, as it turned out, had to eat, though he ate far less than Draco. Just now, he chased a piece of chicken around his plate, like a child. "Why would I do that?" he inquired.

Draco had already learned that, even with the spell taken into account, the Dark Lord was far more direct than most people, and when he asked a question he expected it to be answered. "To see what it is you're missing. What's one less, anyhow? What made you pick…?"

"Seven," Voldemort said calmly, separating rice from chicken on his plate with a mad methodical focus. "Seven is a magical number."

Draco's brows lifted. He'd never heard anything about the number seven.

"It's a Muggle thing, from fairytales," Voldemort meant and did not say. "I grew up amongst Muggles…"

Draco ate his food and did not say another word.

* * *

Sometimes, Draco thought of Harry Potter or Severus Snape. Sometimes, he wondered what his father would tell Snape about Draco's whereabouts. Sometimes, he wondered what Snape would hear when he did.

Sometimes, Draco was sure Potter and Snape were both mad with worry. Draco had somehow become used to Potter at his elbow, that sympathetic smirk playing at his mouth, Potter in his space, breathing his air. But then, he always thought of Potter a lot more than Potter thought of him.

* * *

Draco decided he was definitely going mad. _Mad_.

He'd insisted the Death Eaters bring in a proper table for meals; that only made sense. He'd ordered his father to bring more of Draco's things – his bedsheets for one, and his books for another. But it was staring at the floor and thinking _a crimson rug!_ that proved to him he'd slipped a cog, gone mental, lost a vast series of marbles. He was not an interior decorator, he was not _living with Voldemort_ for Merlin's sake, Voldemort would murder him on a whim.

…any day, now.

Draco could play _Frère Jacques__, Mary Had a Little Lamb_. He could also make the Dark Lord laugh, even in his fiercest mood.

* * *

"What did you choose for the Horcruxes?" Draco asked one evening as the fire crackled in the background. His father and Pettigrew were chatting in a corner, waiting on the Dark Lord's attention.

Voldemort pushed a pawn forward and said nothing.

"Knowing what they are doesn't help me find them," Draco pointed out. "It doesn't help me escape."

The Dark Lord stared, then gave a small shrug. "Things that were important to the founding members of Hogwarts. A goblet, a locket. It seemed deeply mysterious at the time." He withdrew something from his pocket that glinted and shone.

Draco caught at it, and stared. It was a locket, plain but soundly wrought. "This isn't –?"

Voldemort took it carefully back and pocketed it again. "There's something to your theory," he said. "I feel better, safer, more energized, to have it near me. But no one has tried to unmake a Horcrux. They've tried to destroy one, of course."

Draco watched the Dark Lord, and saw that he was saying precisely what he meant, once more. "Don't you ever lie?" he blurted.

"Not often. The truth is far more damaging," Voldemort said. "It's why I like you. You're actually very dangerous." He stood from the chess game to ruffle Draco's hair, and turned to deal with Lucius and Wormtail.

_I am_, he realized for the first time, as his father and Wormtail stared at the gesture of easy affection with queasy expressions. _They look at me as though they are far more afraid of me than of him. _

_Soon, _thought Draco, _will __even my father be wary of speaking my name?_

_

* * *

_

_

* * *

A/N: _Yes, oddly enough, this is where I intended this story to go - it isn't a mid-story launch in a new direction - but it sort of feels that way. Also, it feels as though I could have said, "background is that Draco has lost the ability to speak or hear anything but the truth as he sees it" and this could have been an entirely separate one-shot.

_D_efinitely want to know what you think of this one!

-K


	7. Lock Boxes

TWO: Lock-Boxes

* * *

He held the locket up to the light and watched it spin for long moments, considering. It wasn't as though he didn't know the boy was angling for him to try this. It wasn't as though he didn't know the boy was nudging him in this direction. It was just that it had been so long since someone had dared that he was curious enough to let himself be nudged.

Making Draco Malfoy his creature was the smartest thing he'd done in a long time, he reflected as the golden chain twisted and danced, the piece of _him_ within it calling. The boy who could only speak and hear the truth was a sharp breeze through him, a torch that lit old paths and showed them tangled and choked. It surprised him he hadn't realized how bored he was, how near to sleeping. And then there was this: the idea that the Horcruxes made him less rather than more, shut pieces of him off behind walls of his own making.

It hadn't taken long for him to figure out how to mortar this small bit of himself back to the foundation, but he'd carried the knowledge with him for days, waiting until he could hear the far-off strains of an Irish flute before withdrawing the locket once more and pressing his mind to a final decision.

It was one of seven. It did not, appreciably, reduce his chances of survival to try just this one. And he would admit, to himself in any case, that he was curious, and even that this was the first thing since Draco Malfoy to evoke curiosity in him in years.

It was probably smarter to try this with someone present, in case things went wrong, but he had never been a man of caution.

He closed his eyes and was immediately that much more aware of the sliver of _self_ in the locket, pulling towards him like a magnet. He could almost hear it, whispering to him in his own voice. He took a breath and reached out with his magic to tug.

The artifact was well-made, and did not wish to give up its prize. The locket held and held until it was straining towards him on its chain, until it was all he could do to hold on. And then, with the feel of a weed pulling from solid earth, it finally came free, flying towards him and settling home.

He fell backward; dimly, he was aware he was shaking, head to foot, and the pain was terrible. His heart fluttered in his chest, beating like the wings of a captured bird, then slowed, then stopped.

Then started again.

He opened his eyes.

The world had gone brighter, somehow, no longer so grey, nor so blurred at its edges. His body ached in an long-ago, familiar way, as though from a day's hard labor. The stone floor rasped under his fingers as little stones scurried away from his scrabbling, as though it had gained added dimension.

Or as though he had.

The boy came through the doorway to his reception chambers at a dead run, skidding to a stop in front of him. He regained his storied cool a split second later, but Tom was almost certain he'd seen something very much like worry on the boy's features before he managed to school them.

"You did it," the boy said, raking a hand through his pale hair and reaching out to tug Tom to his feet. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."

He held up the locket between his fingers and watched it spin. Strange, how it had once been a priceless artifact that comforted him, whispered to him, spoke in his name, and now it was a roughly worked old keepsake, no more animate or enthralling than the shoes on his feet.

He felt unsettled, as though some great hand had shaken him vigorously and all of his insides hadn't quite settled yet. He looked down and his eyes lit on Draco's hand, still gripping his wrist.

His wrist, which was – no, it must be his imagination – a warmer shade than before.

Draco lifted his hand, and turned it over, and then there was no mistaking it. "You got a part of yourself back," he said in the same voice he'd used since he'd come to stay here, free of self-consciousness or egotism. "How does it feel?"

Tom felt himself shrug. It wasn't as though he could fool the boy if he tried, and something in that was very soothing. "You will play for me," he ordered.

He wasn't certain what the boy heard, but his grey eyes remained steady. And after a moment, he lifted the flute to his lips and there was music.

* * *

It wasn't long before he missed having the locket around. It had felt awfully good next to his skin, that tiny pull at his heart like the company of a beloved friend. The locket now hung around the boy's neck, and good riddance; it was no good to him anymore, he felt sick when he looked at it.

It took very little effort to send Lucius out to bring Nagini to him. He knew she couldn't survive for very long in the dark and the damp of the caves without a warm rock to sun herself, but he thought that if he had her company a little while, he could feel better about the emptied locket tucked underneath the boy's robes. He could content himself, knowing that little bit of him was close at hand, close and safe.

Then there was the added benefit of seeing the great Lucius Malfoy reduced to his errand boy, and to watching him visibly pale at the thought of enticing Nagini to accompany him back to the caves. Somehow he managed, and returned with the great snake, looking shaky but pleased with himself.

"I thank you, Lucius," Tom said, hiding a victorious grin. Just having Nagini close made him feel a bone-deep relief that could only be explained by having another part of his soul so very close to the whole.

"You'll have this one too, won't you?" Draco asked over supper that night.

Tom swallowed his bit of potato before responding; for some reason, supper had been especially good the last few nights. He was sure it was the boy's influence, ordering the other Death Eaters into bringing food of higher quality. Tom didn't remember the last time he'd tasted food so appetizing.

"I don't know what you could mean," he replied, stroking Nagini's head and sighing with pleasure at the feel of that fragment of self, so close at hand.

Draco stared at Nagini thoughtfully. Tom was disappointed to see that Draco had slipped past his fear of the giant snake within the first five minutes of her acquaintance. While he didn't look inclined to pet her, neither did he shy away from the rasp of her tongue. He looked at her as he looked at everything, lately: as though she were a puzzle, if a puzzle only just worthy of holding his attention.

Nagini returned the half-interest, slumping at his feet sometimes when he played, watching him eat or read. Eventually, Draco dared to trail his fingers down to stroke the top of her head. Eventually, Nagini stopped striking at his fingers when he tried.

"My snake likes you best," Tom told him early one morning when Nagini curled around Draco's feet at breakfast.

Malfoy looked up and eyed him with distaste for what might have been the first time. "I'm warmer than you," he explained, "and the cold is killing her. You must do what you intend, and soon."

He said something offhand in reply, but grey eyes pinned him suddenly, and he knew, or he thought he knew, what he'd said, when Draco replied. "I'll kill her for you, if you can't," the blond boy said. "Poison, or something else quick. But winter is coming on, and I won't let you freeze her to death."

The boy: his morality pet, his conscience and compass. And a little child shall lead them, and Tom had killed a lot of people, but he wasn't sure he could end the life of something that trusted him enough to follow him to the darkest, most isolated place it knew, and die there for his love.

* * *

Or perhaps he could, thought Tom as he watched Nagini writhe as he yanked and twisted and tugged as though he were pulling a stubborn tooth. As his bit of soul flew home and Nagini stopped twitching, he felt that sweet, overwhelming surge of power and promise, followed by the agonizing sense that he was dying: that his soul could not stand such _completeness_, that at any moment he should shatter apart, and he found himself laughing aloud, his fear of dying eclipsed by a mad sense of how _good_ it would feel to not have to worry about anything anymore…

When he awoke, Nagini was twitching again; she reared and eyed him reproachfully, then hissed.

He realized he could no longer understand her, and backed away before she could express her wroth more eloquently.

* * *

This time, the boy stopped and stared, and Tom felt a surge of pleased vindication at rendering him speechless for once, this boy who could talk for England.

"Nagini…?" he whispered.

"Alive and well," Tom heard himself say, and his voice was deep and rich and melancholic, just as it'd sounded after he'd made his third Horcrux. "Though no longer my creature, I fear."

"You're attractive," Draco said in the same, gobsmacked voice.

"You need not sound so startled," Tom replied. "I was, in my day."

"Well, it's your day again."

Tom hadn't dared look in the mirror, but if the boy's expression were anything to go by, he looked as he had in his forties, all dark hair and flashing smile. The feather-light sweep of fringe felt strange against his forehead. He kept thinking that spiderweb had gotten in his way, or an insouciant insect had landed on his brow.

"Stop fussing," the boy ordered, and so he did.

Nagini slithered through the doorway, looking unhappy and shivering with the cold. She ignored Tom and slid to twine about Draco's feet.

"Easy, girl, I like my limbs attached," Draco said when she tightened her grip.

Tom flashed his most dazzling grin. "See? Likes you best," he said.

Draco stared again, then lowered his hand to rest atop the giant snake's head.

* * *

And then he couldn't help wondering how it might feel to have all of the pieces of him reunited, what it might be like if the world were so immediate, so real and so sharp, _all the time_. After Nagini came the Cup, and the Diadem, and the Ring. The world was bright and full of dark promise, food tasted _amazing_, Draco Malfoy played him to sleep each night.

He did not see his Lieutenants, preferring to send them messages through the boy.

The boy was the one who told him he must: "You scarcely look any older than I do," he said, twirling his flute between his fingers, ring around the locket's chain around his neck, Nagini curled warm in the confines of a heating spell at his feet. "They'll suppose you're impersonating the Dark Lord. And a neat trick that would be; do you suppose I could pull it off?"

He he had no way of knowing in which direction the boy was tugging anymore, though he found he minded being pulled along less than ever. And Tom found it harder than ever to press the boy into admitting it, especially when Draco sat him before the fire, Nagini curled on the hearth, and played.

Tom remembered feeling an anger so deep it had sunk into his bones, like being bitter cold and certain he could never feel warm again; he remembered feeling cheated. He thought that he remembered ordering himself to never feel sorry again, that the world cared nothing for him and so he should care nothing for the world. But his driving purpose had slipped from his reach, and the details of his plans, slotted away into the lock-boxes of his mind and insulated from everyday emotions and concerns seemed to have spilled open; and he had no choice but to trust that someone was managing his affairs better than he could himself.

So when Draco suggested he retrieve the last Horcrux, Tom had to admit he didn't know where he'd put it.

"I do," Draco said. "Would you like to go with me and retrieve it?"

Tom could not be fooled so easily. "You are not to leave here," he reminded Draco.

"You are a prisoner just as much as I am," Draco replied, with his clear-eyed focus turned on Tom. "No one would recognize you as you are, you wouldn't be in danger. Don't you want to leave here?"

So the two headed down the hallways of the catacombs, Tom carrying little but his wand and the clothes on his back; the Horcruxes were worse than useless to him now, dead bodies, empty. He left them to molder, detritus from a life he could remember but no longer understand. Draco wore a heavy chain around his neck, one that held a locket and a ring, a flute in his pocket; Nagini hurried after him.

It took the two a few minutes of fumbling with the wards, Draco holding his hands to his head while Tom fiddled with the magic, pressed it here and there, like a safecracker listening for the tumblers to fall. And then they were through, making their way up into an improbably bright world.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so one or two chapters into this story, I knew that Draco would be tricking the Dark Lord somehow, and not because the spell wore off 'just in time', but because he used his curse in just the right way, either by convincing Voldemort to let him go, or leading a mutiny. But I didn't know until a few weeks ago that he was tricking Volemort into (convincing Voldemort to) reabsorb the parts of himself. And while I'm sure there are authors who could have pulled this off in a satisfying yet lighthearted manner, going that route didn't seem quite right to me with this plotline. This is what it had to be; this is where it had to go.

I would love to hear what you think of this one, and of this story as a whole of course. I've finished all of the remaining chapters, now, save the final tweaking, but your comments always aid in that final tweaking. I'll be posting the last chapter and epilogue soon. Thanks for reading and reviewing,

-K

P.S. - 'Morality pet'... if you haven't yet stumbled upon tv tropes dot org, and you call yourself a writer, you must hie yourself hence, immediately.


	8. The Choir Invisible

THREE: The Choir Invisible

* * *

Draco sat the Dark Lord outside of the Hogwarts wards and stepped through the barrier. Then, he turned. "I'll be right back," he promised. "Nagini, please stay with him."

The large snake climbed atop a rock as though to keep watch, and stared off after him as he walked up to the castle. Class was in progress; the Gryffindors looked like they were in the middle of a Care of Magical Creatures lesson, which silenced amusingly at his advance, until Hagrid himself turned to face him.

"Sweet Merlin, Mister Malfoy!" he exclaimed. "What're you doin' here?"

"Looking for Harry Potter," Draco said calmly. "Where is he?"

Draco looked up to see Harry Potter breaking free of the staring crowd. It was the sight of him, not the castle or Hagrid, that finally alerted Draco he was home. A treacherous weakness shot through his knees, and he stumbled. "And Professor Snape," he corrected. "I want to see Professor Snape."

"You'll be wantin' to see Dumbledore – " Hagrid began.

"_Professor Snape_," Draco interrupted. He cleared his throat, sweeping the class with his gaze – terrified to a one. "Please," he added in a far calmer voice, and Hagrid sent one of the Slytherins off running for their Head of House.

Draco turned his attention back to Harry, who couldn't seem to stop staring. "I need your help," he said. "Outside the wards, there's – I need your help."

"We thought you were dead," Harry said.

"Alive and well, as you can see," Draco replied, then reached for Harry's hand and tugged forward. Harry stumbled towards him a few steps before Ronald Weasley emerged from the crowd to grab Harry's other hand.

"You pop back here from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's side and somehow survive for months, which means of course you struck a deal with him, and you want Harry to go with you?"

"Now, Ron," Hermione cautioned. "I'm sure you're right, but let's not appear rude."

It took all of Draco's good breeding to avoid rolling his eyes. "I am taking him to the Dark Lord, but not for the reason you think. It's important."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ron rode roughshod over him a second time.

"You're planning on taking him to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to be killed!"

"Yes," Draco said patiently, "but for very good reason, and he'll come right back."

Hermione, Ron, and the assemblage mutely stared. Harry licked his lips nervously, looking around at his friends.

"No, don't look at them. Look at me. Do you remember when I said I owed you?"

The other boy nodded, searching Draco's features for truthfulness.

"This is me paying back," Draco said. "You know I can't lie to you, I'm going to tell you just what I mean. You know that, right?"

The breath left Harry in a rush, and he nodded. "Yeesss," he drawled cautiously.

Draco gripped Harry's shoulders with both hands and peered into his features. "You will come out the other side of this just fine," he said. "Better than fine."

Harry turned to his friends. "I'm going with Malfoy. Be right back."

Hermione gasped and Ron sputtered, and Harry hurried after Draco without looking back.

"You're different," he said.

Draco turned to eye him. "And you're just the same," he observed.

"How'd you survive?" Harry whispered.

"I befriended Voldemort."

"No, really."

Draco raised both of his eyebrows.

Harry swallowed. "You've gone all scary. But strangely, I think I still like you. Maybe more than before."

Draco ducked his head to hide a smile. "How long was I gone?" he wondered.

"Six months and three days," Harry rattled off, then flushed. "I thought you were dead."

"You mentioned that," Draco said. "Since you didn't ride in, banners flying behind you, I assumed as much."

"I searched for you. I_ looked_," Harry tacked on at Draco's dubious expression. "Professor Snape, too, I thought he'd go mad with worry. But then, about a month in, we..." He scrubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. "Voldemort left evidence he'd offed you," he said in a quiet voice.

"Did Professor Snape think to contact my parents?" Draco challenged. "They knew where I was."

"Voldemort froze Snape out. And, well - your father told Snape that you were '_safe with the Dark Lord_'," Harry babbled. "But we thought it was a euphemism, you know, like '_singing with the Choir Invisible_'. I mean, who's safe with the Dark Lord? Snape thought he'd slipped a cog, honestly."

Draco looked at him and frowned. "You're saying 'honestly', as though I've any choice but to hear what you mean _honestly_."

Harry's brows climbed. "The potion wore off ages ago," he said. "Didn't it on you?"

Draco stared at the fresh greenness pushing up out of the ground and thought on this a moment. "I had no way of knowing whether it had worn off or not," he said, "so I naturally assumed it hadn't. But," he added, "I also swallowed it and you did not."

"True enough," Harry replied. "So what is it you wanted me to… oh."

Draco looked up to find what might have been a strange picture were it not for its familiarity. Nagini was still sunning herself on the rock where he'd left her, but the Dark Lord had climbed it to perch beside her. The great snake's head rested in the young man's lap, and his dark head was bent forward so that rumpled dark, glossy hair shone in the sun.

Harry walked forward as though ensorcelled, even though Draco could not see the Dark Lord's wand, and the young man himself looked up sharply when Harry approached.

"Hello," the Dark Lord said once Harry got close.

"Hi," Harry said, awe coloring his voice. "That's, erm, a really big snake."

The Dark Lord looked down into his lap in mild surprise, as though the snake had sneaked her way into his lap in order to obtain scritches. "She doesn't like me so much anymore, usually," he commented. "I feel like I should remember why."

Harry looked at the snake and said something that sounded like "_hhhaaaassssettthhh sttttsssshhhaaaaa_."

The Dark Lord's head jerked up, and a bright grin decorated his features. "Parseltongue! I used to be able to do that as well, but a lot of things I used to be able to do have fallen by the wayside." His face fell, but then his eyes lifted, tracking Harry's every twitch. "Say, come closer," he suggested. "I feel like I should know you. I want a better look."

Harry actually swayed on the spot before shaking his head. Then his eyes widened as he finally, _finally_ put it together. "You brought me a De-Aged Dark Lord," he accused. "I don't know what to say. It's not even my birthday."

"He's not De-Aged, or at least not… traditionally so," Draco extemporized. "He's whole, or nearly, and he needs you to… here, I'm over _here_," Draco snapped as Harry's attention trailed back to the Dark Lord. "What you feel pulling is _him_, there's a fragment of his soul in you."

Harry turned to stare at him. "Oh, _gross_," was his opinion on the matter.

"He needs it back," Draco went on. "If he gets it, he'll leave you alone."

Harry's expression turned dubious. "Really?"

"That's my working theory," Draco said.

Harry was already standing, trailing over to the older man, but Draco grabbed for him and pulled him back.

"Sorry. It didn't feel like this, before."

Draco nodded. "Back then, you were one Horcrux amongst many. Now you're the only remaining piece. You're like an electron being pulled towards an uncharged chlorine atom."

Harry stared.

"I was bored, I read a great deal."

"So why'd you pull me back? What's the problem?"

Draco bit his lip. "He took the Horcrux from Nagini and her heart stopped beating. She woke up afterward, but… she died."

"But if I do this then he'll be whole?"

"No, but I think it'll bring him back to a place where he has a shot again," Draco replied. "You destroyed part of his soul when you destroyed the diary. There'll always be a piece of him missing."

"Okay," Harry said.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated. "Neither can live while the other survives. So long as Voldemort is just _surviving_, I can't live my life. I get it. I think." He swayed once more towards the Dark Lord, and this time Draco let him go.

"You're the last one," the Dark Lord told him when he approached.

The snake slid away and wrapped around Draco's ankles; Draco brought his hand down to stroke the top of her leathery head.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry replied, that awe tingeing his voice again. "I, er… you want it back?"

"_Yes_," the Dark Lord hissed, and then his hand reached forward to curve around Harry's shoulder, nails biting down.

There was a flash of light, and when Draco could see again, there were two boys sprawled out on the green, both convulsing.

Nagini trembled, and Draco petted her reassuringly. "It's all right, Nagini; it's only temporary."

Of course, Professor Snape appeared at that very moment, when Draco was talking to his enormous pet snake while serenely watching two convulsing wizards and looking like the very incarnation of a young Dark Lord in training.

"We – we thought you dead," he rasped.

"As you can see, I am as well as may be expected," Draco replied, with a tinge of what felt like it might be new emotion buzzing in his ears. "And Potter, I'm sure he'd thank you for asking, is also well. Just… wait."

"But, but how?" Professor Snape demanded, gripping him on either side of each shoulder and staring so deep into Draco's eyes that something dark and buried within him stirred and gasped, like a seed pushing up through newly-warmed earth at winter's end.

"He found me valuable," Draco said. "I – how's Potter?"

"Still comatose," his professor replied, without turning to check.

Draco turned to Nagini. "Stay here, all right? I don't want any soul fragments finding their way back to you."

Nagini blinked at him lazily, then climbed back atop the rock and out of the way.

Draco strode to the two boys and knelt beside them, something inside him twisting at the sight of the pair, thrown down like a pair of rag dolls; and how alike they looked, with their dark, shiny, messy hair and half-moon lashes, their slender frames and features cast in serious lines. The younger of the two woke first, and panicked immediately.

"Where am I?" he shouted.

"Easy," Draco said. "You're on Hogwarts grounds, or near enough."

"I dreamed my father was dead," he rasped, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "I did something terrible…"

Professor Snape doffed his cloak and wrapped it around the boy. "It's shock," he said, gravely. "Shock gives one terrible nightmares."

The boy nodded rapidly, raised his hand to run it through his curly hair. Then he turned to Harry and looked pained, and guilty. "I – something's happened to Potter," he stammered. "I couldn't get him to come back with me."

"He'll come back," Draco said, calmly. Then, "he'll come back," when Snape stared.

Five minutes later, Potter finally stirred. His green eyes flew open, and when his searching gaze lit on Professor Snape, it was with an expression so sweet that Draco gaped. He wasn't aware Harry Potter could smile so beatifically, especially at the sight of his hated Potions Master.

"Mum says hi," he said.

"Potter, don't be ridiculous," Snape retorted, though he'd gone white as a sheet.

" 'M not," he replied. "She says you were best friends in school, and she's sorry. Even dad says he's sorry, though Sirius won't." He grinned, serene. "I saw them. I saw all of them," he added, and then burst into tears.

"Oh, Potter, _don't_," Snape said, horrified. "No, you mustn't, you'll – you'll scare…"

"Tom, Professor," Tom Riddle said, looking at Snape like he was the mad one.

"You'll frighten Tom," Snape said, and Draco saw the moment he put it all together, just who was looking up at him so blankly.

"Wow, that's a keen snake," Tom said, in a commendable if transparent attempt to give Harry a moment. "She isn't yours, is she, Professor?"

And Draco likewise saw the older man attempt to place the Lord Voldemort he knew into the same context as the teenager before him, and fail. "It's my snake," Draco replied. "Nagini's her name."

"Nagini!" Tom said. "Like the Nāga, very clever..."

Harry looked as though the distraction had calmed him. He pushed himself to his feet and reached out to squeeze Draco's hand.

"Are you all right now?" Draco asked, quiet.

Harry nodded. "Just fine. _Better than fine_," he quoted with a wry grin. "I don't know if it was just a really amazing dream, but I did see my parents, and Sirius, my godfather. He says he heartily approves of you, whatever that means."

"Oh; well, he's my cousin, so he must mean he's proud of the way I've turned out," Draco said, offhand. "Or perhaps he's thinking of messy-haired, grey-eyed great-godchildren," he tacked on in sudden inspiration.

The color Potter turned was more than worth it.

* * *

Draco went immediately with Snape to be reinstated as a student of Hogwarts, as he'd been declared dead; but they found that Tom's records were in the books in full. He was an O-student, on his way to a Potions Mastery; the staff loved him, wrote glowing end-of-term reports about his kindness towards underclassmen and his marked respect for his professors. He was a ward of the school, an orphan, and the professors loved to watch him succeed.

"Checking up on your favorite student?" Dumbledore inquired when Snape asked to view the boy's file.

"My favorite?" Snape inquired, still feeling gobsmacked by seeing his own comments scrawled across the boy's records: _Mister Riddle is a cautious and thoughtful brewer with a flair for finicky potions_…

"You needn't deny it, Severus. Well you know my reservations about the boy, but he seems to have done very well for himself. Hogwarts has been good for him. Now, my dear Mister Malfoy," he said, turning to Draco and wearing his best twinkling smile, "it is a relief and a pleasure to have you returned to us. Let's see about getting you reinstated, shall we?"

Severus turned his attention to Draco, who stood in the Headmaster's office, quiet and clear-eyed and taller than Snape remembered him, the flute in his pocket looking well-worn and much-beloved. His white-gold hair looked pale as parchment in the flickering torchlight, in the cool luminance from the windows, and there was something inescapably open about him: about his eyes, his stance, the way he focused all of his attention on Dumbledore without the social nicety of allowing his gaze to shift to the left or right.

He was really looking at the Headmaster, _seeing_ him in a way that most people did not care to, due to custom or convention.

Snape thought he might know why Draco was still alive; he thought he might know why Draco and Harry and he, out of all the denizens of Hogwarts, still saw Tom's true nature. Severus supposed that once such a habit as that _seeing_ was formed, it was hard to break, regardless of the lack of magical ballasts to balance it.

Dumbledore appeared a bit unnerved by it. "Well then," he said, after a clearing of his throat that could be nothing but a sign of feeling rather unseated. "Let's see your record, shall we?" He pulled a folder out of his desk labeled, _Malfoy, Draco_, and tutted over its thickness. "My goodness, it mightn't be such a poor idea for you take a leaf out of Mister Riddle's book," he said, peering over his half-moon glasses.

Severus choked, but Draco limited himself to a twitch of the left side of his lips, an almost-smile he ducked his head to hide.

"I'll do my best, sir," Draco replied, with clear-eyed sincerity. "I'll do my best."

* * *

A/N: One more chapter.

Someone mentioned the thing with Parseltongue being an inherited ability, and I think that was so, in canon. However, it suited my purposes better to imagine that Voldemort had gotten the Parseltongue ability when he made Nagini a Horcrux, and that he did so before making Harry a Horcrux, imparting that ability to Harry thereby.

Many reviewers have commented on the change in tone between the first parts, essentially from Harry's point of view, and the latter parts, ostensibly about Draco. IRL, I'm sure this is because this story was first posted two years ago, and I'm not in the same frame of mind writing the latter parts as I am the former. In ff-life, I've separated these into Book One: Harry, and Book Two: Draco, and worked the chapter numbers so that they start again once we're with Draco. I'm not sure if that'll help with the disconnect or not; probably, for all of you who are with me up until now, the damage as it were has been done. For newer readers who have just begun the story, I'd like to hear if that helps the shift seem less disconcerting, though I'm sure it'll still be noticeable.

This was one of those ideas that I _meant_ to make lighthearted, but couldn't manage to keep that way. Because what happens when someone who tells only the truth as he sees it - cannot help it, in fact - is faced with evil? Not LOLs, I think. Though perhaps someone like Terry Pratchett could have pulled it off. ;)

Thanks for staying with the story so long, ending coming soon. :)

-K


	9. Tom

BOOK THREE: Tom

ONE: Epilogue

* * *

"Hullo, Professor?"

Professor Snape looked up to see Tom standing in his doorway, and beckoned him in. "Did you have a question on today's work?"

Tom shrugged. "No, sir. Not really. I had a question on another matter, actually, if you'd hear it."

Severus raised one eyebrow. "A question you believe I won't wish to answer, if the rare book you left on my desk last night is any indication."

Tom's gaze remained steady, though he quirked a smile. "You're the only professor who doesn't seem charmed by me in the slightest," he confided. "I rather like it, actually."

Snape returned a razor-edged smile of his own. "A statement which could, in and of itself, be seen as an attempt to charm, Mister Riddle."

"Can't help it," Tom replied with a shrug. "Born this way, I suppose."

"I suppose," Professor Snape replied slowly. "Your question, then: out with it."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes. I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

Severus stiffened in his chair, staring across his desk at the poised young man before him, who looked innocently inquiring; but then, he could just be that good.

Severus folded his hands atop his desk; he could not deny he had been anticipating such an inquiry, even if he had not been certain that today was the day. He examined the Riddle boy until he began to dart his eyes back and forth from his professor to the floor of Severus's office.

"Do you still have nightmares about your father's death?" Severus finally said.

Tom's cool poise fell away, and he fidgeted in place. "Yes, sir," he said, in a low, fragmented voice. "They're – they're very real. And, and that's part of why I want to know about Horcruxes, because I know enough to know they're linked to the idea of immortality."

"And if you had a Horcrux," Snape supplied, "you'd be safe. Nothing bad could ever happen to you? As it did to your father. And your mother before him."

Tom said nothing; he stood before the Potions Master's desk, white-faced.

"A Horcrux chips away at the soul until there is only madness and anger and grief left," Snape pressed ruthlessly. "You might live a long while, but not as yourself."

Snape watched Tom's throat work as he swallowed; then the boy shook his head and turned to go.

"What?" he said. "Go on," he urged, "what is it?"

Tom turned. "I feel that way all the time," he said suddenly, "full of all those things, and I can't see how it's any different except that I'd get to live longer and be less afraid. Sometimes," he went on in a rush, "I think I really did kill him, I _know_ I killed him, and I'm glad, and then I'm sick with it, and I have these dreams, these _dreams_." He glared at Severus. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know you're not. Not all of the young are fools, much as it may sometimes appear so," Snape replied. He paused. "Would you like to be Obliviated?"

Tom's head jerked up and he stared at him wildly for a moment, hope and fear warring on his face. Then his shoulders slumped. "No," he said.

"Will you speak with Draco?"

Severus knew that speaking to Draco was one of Tom's favorite things, next to listening to the boy play a battered Irish flute. "Yes," he replied. "Draco tells me the things no one else will," he said after a moment.

"I daresay he does," Professor Snape replied. "I'm surprised you haven't asked him about this before."

Tom threw his head back and laughed. "Isn't it obvious, Professor? I'm terrified that he'll tell me the truth."

"I wouldn't have thought so," Severus said. "You seem a very forthright young man yourself, in your way."

"Thank you, sir. I believe it's why I value you and Draco Malfoy so much," he said. "And Potter too, if to a lesser extent. All of you do your best to see the world as it is, not as you wish it to be; and you present yourselves as nothing more and nothing less than what you are. It is a rare quality, one I am trying my best to emulate."

Snape quirked a smile. "_Now_ I am charmed."

"Then my mission is complete."

"Tom…" Snape rose, crossed his office to press a hand to his shoulder. "You were…"

Tom paused, looking up at him with his head tilted to the side.

"…probably wanting some Dreamless Sleep," Snape said. "You know," he added, "sometimes nightmares are just nightmares."

"Yes, sir," Tom said, and looked relieved at the lie.

"You must promise to come to me or to Draco if you have these thoughts again," Professor Snape said, lowly, pressing a small bottle into Tom's hand.

"Yes, sir," Tom repeated, holding the bottle up to the light and turning it this way and that. "Good night, Professor. Thanks for the Dreamless."

"Good night, Tom. Sleep well," Snape said, showing the young man to his door and closing it behind him. "And sleep sound."

* * *

A/N: Well, come on, you lurkers! Time to weigh in! ;)

Thanks for sticking through this wind-y and weird story. More to come soon; I am determined to finish stories that have been moldering on my hard drive! See you later and hope you enjoyed,

-K


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